Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer
by LTW
Summary: Can the world's greatest Pokemon instructor make an ordinary flower girl an extraordinary Pokemon trainer? Blatant Eldershipping, for Mlle. Harrington. ^_~ (1.4: Daughters don't come cheap. Next time: training lessons SUCK. Stay tuned!)
1. Prologue: In Which the Scene Is Set

Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer Prologue 

**A Firm Avowal of the Lack of Authorial Rights**: The Author of this delightful and charming work wishes that her faithful Readers will acknowledge her Lack of Ownership of Anything contained within this work of fiction. The Characters, which she has seen fit to adopt to this tale, belong to Mister Tajiri and the Corporations who have paid him well to use them. The Story, which she has seen fit to use in her fashion, is based upon the play _Pygmalion_, by the Delightful Mister George Bernard Shaw, and the musical _My Fair Lady_, by Messrs. Lerner and Loewe. Please, gentle Holders of Copyright, do not sue the fair Author, as she is forced to live in Abject Poverty.

**Gentle Reader**: You, fair Readers, will no doubt note the change in Tone that your fair Author has undertaken. It is the Author's desire to write this portion of her tale in a high style, suitably befitting a work of its character. Such a style pays tribute to Miss Jane Austen, and to the inimitable Mister George Bernard Shaw, whose Story has been adapted to fit the Tale of Doctor Samuel Oak and Mrs. Delia Ketchum. (The Author wishes to acknowledge other versions of this tale within the Pokemon fandom, by Trish and by Gobshite McNally.)

Also duly note, gentle Readers, that this work is dedicated to a member of that worthy insitution known as the Eldershipping Brigade. To Mademoiselle Harrington, who hitherfore has been ignored and treated abominably by the Author, this Story is dedicated, from her most obliged and humble Servant, the Author. Please do send the Author your comments on this odd piece of Fiction.

  


**Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer**

_Being a Romance by Latonya Wright_

**The Prologue**, _In Which the Scene Is Set_

_Viridian City and surrounding areas, 1987_

Viridian City.

A large bustling metropolis, ablaze with noise and light and culture. An oasis in the midst of the Viridian Forest. A necessary stop in the journeys of the hundreds of Pokemon trainers of Kanto.

In the forest, a solitary traveler stopped on a nearby hill to gaze at the bright lights and big city in the distance. He had been on his feet, on the road, for several weeks now. The journey had been difficult, even downright grueling and unpleasant at times, and his faithful companions were damn near exhausted. And because he had been a bit too confident one too many times on the road, he had no money and almost no food.

But finally, after so terribly long, he was home, back home at last--and he was finally on the last leg of his journey to become a Pokemon Master.

He momentarily thought of his daughter. She had been extraordinarily pretty the last time he'd seen her... almost seven months ago. Perhaps she had found a nice guy and settled down... Well, then again, probably not. More likely that she'd gotten a pretty good job working in a flower shop or something.

Whatever the case, an improvement in her situation meant she had a lot more income, and that meant that _he_ might have a chance of getting some money. If nothing had changed, he could at least stop at her apartment for a couple of days and get a nice, warm bed, with a nice shower and a nice meal.

But he had to _get_ to Viridian first. With his last reserve of strength, he began the long walk to the City, and the long search for his little girl/ meal ticket.

* * *

Viridian City.

A large bustling metropolis, known as one of the intellectual hubs of Kanto. A city full of knowledge and experience. A nice place for an up-and-coming doctoral candidate to find an internship.

At Viridian's Grand Central Station, a young man stepped off the 8:55 train, direct from Ecruteak. He fought his way through the crowd of passengers, using his backpack and his battered-but-still-fashionable suitcase as a clearing mechanism. When he cleared the platform and reached the station proper, he sank onto a nearby bench, pulled his long black hair into a ponytail, and breathed a sigh of relief.

It had taken forever, but he had finally made it to Viridian. For any other graduate student, that would be the end of a journey; the many universities in the city limits--Bradford University, Emerson College, the University of Kanto-Viridian, among others--had some of the best research facilities for scientists this side of Kanto. Yet he wanted the highest quality education he could get, so he had to keep going. He had to go to a small township called Pallet Town, where he could meet one of his heroes, and hopefully study with him.

At that thought, his hand strayed to the front pocket of his backpack--the safe place where he'd put Professor Westwood's letter of recommendation. Hopefully, his mentor's words would convince the Professor to take him on.

Of course, it was just the matter of figuring out _how_ to get to Pallet Town.

First things first. He pulled twenty pence from his pocket (to call Laurel and his parents), picked up his suitcase, and headed for the information booth. Maybe the transit workers weren't as surly as they looked, so they wouldn't mind helping him...

* * *

Viridian City.

A large bustling metropolis, celebrated for its nightlife, for the numerous clubs and restaurants and movie theaters. Good times for those who could afford it; a nice means of relaxation for those who needed it.

At Callahan's, a reputable jazz/ blues/ swing club in Gloucester Square, a silver-haired, fortyish woman sipped her brandy, watched the young and fashionably dressed couples on the dance floor, and thanked her lucky Gengars that she didn't have to battle anyone this evening.

She liked her job. It brought her into contact with some of the most exciting, glamorous, and gutsy people on the planet. She enjoyed seeing the faces of the young trainers, coming to challenge her for their own personal glory. She enjoyed having access to many of the Pokemon League's secrets. She enjoyed her lavish lifestyle, and she enjoyed being around all the cute young men. (At that, she grabbed her date Raoul's hand and winked at him.)

But goodness, being a member of the Elite Four took so much out of her. Constant strategy, constant battling, constant requests... why, she should be in her office, working on the report the League President wanted by Tuesday! 

_Oh, just listen to me!_ she sighed inwardly. She was starting to sound like her workaholic brother!

At that thought, she gazed wistfully at the two empty seats across the table. Her brother hadn't been here since Audrey died two years ago. He hadn't taken a break in his work since then, either.

The answer was clear. He needed to relax. Of course, it was... she glanced at her watch... Friday. He was probably down at the National Theatre, watching some infernally pretentious play about the nature of life and death. She never did understand his "intellectualism."

She shook her head. Whatever happened, her brother would be fine. If he ever needed her help in enjoying life, he knew where to find her. In the meantime, she was going to have fun.

"Come on, Raoul," she said, pulling the young Spaniard to his feet. "I'm in the mood to meringue."

* * *

Viridian City.

A large bustling metropolis, celebrated for its cultural activities, for the high quality of its museums, musical groups, ballet companies, and theatre troupes. Supported generously by the state, and by the affluent season ticket holders.

And in one of the box seats at the Eynsford Theatre, an older man wondered if he was getting his money's worth.

What was all this? People dressed up in Meowth costumes, bouncing around, singing about memories and living in garbage cans? Bunch of insufferable gits, the lot of them. Audrey might have liked it--she was always so sentimental--but by God, _he_ was a scientist, and he had no tolerance for stupidity.

He leaned back in the box seat's cushions and sighed. This _bored_ the bloody devil out of him. What else should it do for the world's greatest Pokemon researcher?

This would be somewhat tolerable if he had someone amusing and witty here to take his mind off this tedious _thing_. Back in the old days, he would have had someone along: an inquisitive graduate student (arrogant bastards, all of them), his foolishly flirty sister (silly old wench), his entirely silly but tolerable children (dunderheads), or his beloved Audrey (adorable hellion). His wife had been particularly good company for him: she could match his wicked wit word for word--she could even outthink him on occasion. All while looking as feminine and dainty as a powder puff. By God, they didn't make women like that anymore.

Bloody hell, they didn't make anyone like that anymore. Especially not those insufferable bastard trainers. Fools, the lot of them.

The Meowths were still caterwauling. He hated them all. And he was bored.

It would be over soon, and then he could go back home to his nice, comfortable den of intellectualism. Until then, he could amuse himself with his favorite game... _What the hell kind of trainer are you?_

He pulled out his notepad and searched for a person who looked like a _challenge_.

* * *

Viridian City.

A large bustling metropolis, with enough entertainment to amuse the elite. A glittering city of pleasure, made more delightful for the rich and influential citizens who controlled the society.

In another box seat at the Eynsford Theatre, a middle aged woman gazed at the stage through tiny, expensive opera glasses. Her twenty-ish, handsome son sat next to her, scanning the crowd for any single and attractive women.

They were the Viridian City Gym Leaders, and everyone knew it.

The woman leaned towards her son and whispered, "Isn't this ever so much better than dealing with those nasty, filthy trainers all day?"

The son idly picked at some lint on his jacket. "Yes, Mother."

"Of course it is. These people..." She waved an arm to indicate the elegantly coiffed and dressed people below. "These are the ones who count. They count because they have two things that those ignorant trainers we see every day don't have."

"Money and power, Mother." The son made a point of examining his nails.

"Exactly, my dear." She sat back for a moment and congratulated herself on having a fine and morally upright son. Then she leaned forward again and whispered, "By the way, Wyatt wanted to know if you were coming along with him on the heist tonight."

"Maybe. If I get to drive the car this time."

The woman settled back and smiled. "We'll ask him." And she congratulated herself again on her fine, morally upright, socially acceptable son.

* * *

Viridian City.

A large bustling metropolis, with high, ramshackle apartment buildings and a few unswept and dark streets. A city of hard work and little reward, made more challenging for the often-ignored impoverished and homeless citizens who struggled to survive.

In front of a small, poorly constructed but standing shack, a teenaged girl pushed a large flower cart into the front yard and frowned. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her slightly sweaty forehead as she anchored the cart against the wall.

Another long, hard day selling flowers in the Theatre District, from eight this morning to eight tonight. And what did she have to show for it? About forty pounds, or sixty US dollars. In Boston that wouldn't be enough to have dinner--in Viridian it would do even less.

She leaned against the wall and sighed. She really should stop thinking of America. She was a citizen of Kanto now. Not by her choice. By her stupid father's choice.

"Damn him," she snapped, kicking the ground. What kind of guy would leave a nice, comfortable American life for a place where you had to have several hundred pets that could fight? What was he thinking?

She didn't get what was so hot about training the ugly little things anyway. You run around, catch more of these little monsters than you knew what to do with, and then fight people for money and pretty little trinkets that made you look cool. It was all pretty damn stupid, and she just didn't get it. She'd never train or even touch the things if she could help it. Lots of times people gave her flack about it, or even refused to buy from her because of it--"You should train, you should use their fertilizer in your flowers, something"--but she didn't care about that. Really.

Still... it might be nice to get the perks of being an official Pokemon trainer. Getting the extra money for winning battles; getting to see and meet more of the world; getting people to like you because you actually cared about the little monsters... getting out of this hellhole... all that sounded pretty nice...

Oh, who was she kidding? She liked her life. She had a home, even if it was a bit shoddy. She made enough to keep the house in shape. And she had her flowers. At that, she grinned at the rows of flowers growing in her garden. Yeah, the shack was worth it all for the big (for the city) yard.

And even if she hated the country, she could take it. It was all in looking at things the way her mother had. "Anytime you run into something difficult, Delia, raise your chin and tell yourself, 'Bostonians can tolerate anything.'"

"Bostonians can tolerate anything," she repeated, and felt better already.

But enough self-pity and affirmation. She had to think of a way to get some more money. A girl still had to eat, after all.

She checked her watch. Nine-forty-five. Hmmm... if she hurried, she might be able to get back to the Theatre District. Maybe people would want to buy flowers after the show. But she didn't feel like wheeling that damn cart back.

After a moment, she grabbed an empty basket on the cart, then filled it with a few leftover bouquets. With a final toss of her head and lift of her chin, she headed towards the Theatre District, towards the Eynsford Theatre.

* * *

Viridian City.

A large bustling metropolis, like many others in the Kanto region, filled with similar characters and similar stories. And, like all regions, completely subject to the whims of Mother Nature.

Ordinarily these people would be content to remain in their private worlds, to cling to their usual mindsets, to ignore everything and everyone around them. However, thanks to a seemingly ludicrous boast, all these lives would soon be completely intertwined. 

What sort of claim could possibly bring them together?

A very simple one: that a man could take an ordinary, common flower girl and form her into an extraordinary Pokemon trainer.

But for the moment, the only thing that could possibly bring them together was the thunderstorm, conveniently timed to begin as the patrons were leaving the Eynsford Theatre, that effectively trapped some of them under the columns at St.-Martin-in-the Fields.


	2. Act 1, Scene 1: The Bet Suggested

Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer 1.1 

**A Firm Avowal of the Lack of Authorial Rights**: The Author of this delightful and charming work wishes that her faithful Readers will acknowledge her Lack of Ownership of Anything contained within this work of fiction. The Characters, which she has seen fit to adopt to this tale, belong to Mister Tajiri and the Corporations who have paid him well to use them. The Story, which she has seen fit to use in her fashion, is based upon the play _Pygmalion_, by the Delightful Mister George Bernard Shaw, and the musical _My Fair Lady_, by Messrs. Lerner and Loewe. Please, gentle Holders of Copyright, do not sue the fair Author, as she is forced to live in Abject Poverty.

**Gentle Reader**: The Author requests that you, fair Readers, bear with the Author for the seemingly slow pace of this Chapter. She also asks you to bear with her changes in viewpoint and dialect. Regrettably, she is not well versed in British cursing, and she has only secondhand knowledge of Bostonian tone. Hopefully you will enjoy this part anyway, dear Readers. As before, this Story is dedicated to the marvelous Miss Harrington, from her most obliged and humble servant, the Author. The Author also sends Greetings to the venerable institution known as the Eldershipping Brigade. Please do send the Author your comments on this odd piece of Fiction.

  


**Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer**

_Being a Romance by Latonya Wright_

**Act I, Scene 1**: _The Bet Suggested_

  


_Theatre District, Viridian City, 1987_

_Damn and blast it all! Of all the nights for a torrential downpour!_

Samuel Oak stood under the awnings of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Raindrops fell from the brim of his wool fedora, splashed onto his nose.

_How absolutely irritating!_

He'd never wanted the damnable theater tickets anyway. That was a concession to dear, sweet Audrey, God be good to her soul. His lovely little wife had loved going out to plays and concerts--though, granted, back when they went to the theater there were no foolish ninnies jumping around on stage in Meowth costumes, singing... or perhaps the word was caterwauling...

However, that was neither here nor there. What _was_ here or there was the fact that he had bothered to keep the box at the Eynsford, and for all that money and trouble, his reward was a night stuck in the rain after a terrible show. Preposterous!

Now he was a scientist. To be more precise, he was a Pokemon researcher. And any man worth his salt knew that scientists did _not_ go to the theater. No, they stayed in their laboratories all day, as he should have.

Oh, well. As soon as the rain let up, he could catch a taxi and get back to his lab in Pallet Town. It would be damn near impossible to get a cab while this infernal downpour was still raging. It was just the matter of how to best pass the time...

He decided to play a game with himself again, a little game that his years of training and research had developed for him. If that ridiculous show hadn't numbed his brain to the point of insanity, he could play _What the hell kind of trainer are you?_

He pulled out his notepad and ducked behind one of the massive pillars to better examine the people milling about.

* * *

Lydia Lawson glanced around at the small throng of people underneath the awnings. A particularly dirty and scruffy trainer stood next to her. His sleeve brushed lightly against her mink stole.

She sniffed and moved closer to her son, Giovanni. "My goodness. Where on earth is Wyatt with the car?"

Giovanni pulled his coat tightly and shrugged. "There's probably a huge traffic jam, with the taxis and the buses and all."

"Well, I wish he'd hurry up. I want to get back to the Gym... where we belong." Lydia shivered. "Honestly, a respectable person of quality shouldn't have to stand around with the lower classes. As if we don't get enough of them every day!"

"Yes, Mother," Giovanni said, because he had learned that that was what his mother wanted to hear.

They stood there for a moment, gazing at the street longingly, hoping to see the official Cadillac. Still no sign--just more taxis and carriages and buses and chaos.

Lydia eventually gave Giovanni a little shove. "Giovanni, darling, go and see if you can find Wyatt and the car."

"Oh, Mother, you honestly don't think sending me out in the rain is going to make Wyatt show up any faster!"

"Well, it might help in some way..."

Giovanni rolled his eyes. "Mother, really."

"Now don't argue with me, Giovanni. You don't want me to catch pneumonia from the rain..." She carefully moved away from another trainer who appeared to have a bad case of lice. "... or any other infectious disease that could possibly find me. Be a good boy and find the car."

"All right, all right." The young man raised the collar of his coat, then dashed out into the maelstrom of cars and people.

At first, he moved gracefully--dodging a car here, a bike there, sidestepping a careless pedestrian. But he paused a bit too long after avoiding a Corvette... and ran smack into a young woman. She tumbled into the street, dropping her basket of flowers all over the street.

"Oh, goodness!" Giovanni hurried to help the girl up, but she waved him away.

"Oh, _dammit_, my basket!" She saved it from being crushed by stampeding feet.

He bent to salvage a bouquet of daffodils. "Here, let me help you."

"For crying out loud!" The girl tossed another bouquet down and stomped. "Two bunches of violets, in the mud, practically broken!" She whirled on him. "Why don't you watch where you're going, huh?"

Giovanni gazed at her. She was a young woman, not more than twenty, he guessed, though she wore her hair in two pigtails that made her seem a lot younger. Strange... he'd never really paid much attention to redheads before... but this one had big, bright brown eyes. If she looked like a proper lady and not like a wet, bedraggled cat, she would almost be pretty...

Then he heard his mother's voice behind him. "Giovanni, find the car before I catch my death!"

"Yes, Mother," he called over his shoulder before handing the daffodils to the young woman. "Sorry about that. I managed to save these." And he gave her his patented "lady-killer" smile.

Strangely enough, the flower girl didn't seem impressed at all. "Thanks. Next time, though, just be more careful, okay?"

Women were strange creatures. Any other woman would have practically fainted. Oh, well. "Okay." And he ran off to find Wyatt and the car.

Under the awnings, Lydia watched the whole exchange and frowned. Who was this brazen hussy flirting with her perfect son? Did this girl really think that the Viridian City Gym Leader would be interested in a common flower girl? But here came the little wench now, running up the church stairs.

"Hey, is that your son?" The girl had the most atrocious accent. Lydia cringed to hear it. "If you'd raised him to have any kind of manners, you wouldn't let him ruin a girl's flowers without paying for 'em."

"Oh, go about your business, girl, and don't bother me." With a dramatic sweep of her skirts and lift of her head, Lydia moved away to another pillar.

She pretended not to hear the girl's last words. "And if you'd had any manners, you wouldn't run away without paying either. Sheesh." Dirty commoners, backtalking to their betters...

* * *

"Taxi! Taxi!"

But the cabs all bypassed the tall, darkly handsome young man with the luggage at his side.

As he stood in the pouring rain, Spencer Hale decided that he should never have left Ecruteak.

First the long train ride. Then the getting pushed around in the train station. Now the sudden rainstorm. And he was stuck out in it, and totally unable to find any means of getting to Pallet Town. And if he stood here one more minute, he was going to be a puddle.

Fortunately there was a church nearby. He could see people standing under the awnings there. That would be a nice place to wait out the rainstorm... Spencer grabbed his suitcase and hurried over.

A woman wearing a long black dress and a mink stole stopped him as he raced up the stairs. "Excuse me, young man," she asked. "Does the storm seem to be ending now?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am." He tossed his long, black hair from his face. "If anything, it seems to be getting worse. I'm very sorry."

She sighed. "Thank you, young man." She ambled back toward the edge of the pillar.

Hmm. That was odd. That woman almost looked like the Viridian City Gym Leader. He would think that someone that important could get a cab anytime. Guess not...

"Hey!" A bright, young voice came from right beside him. He turned and gazed at a slightly wet but still pretty young woman. She was giving him a huge grin. "Don't worry! If it's getting worse, that just means it's almost over. So cheer up!"

Strange. Now that he thought about it, this girl was the first person to smile at him here. Heck, she was the _only_ person who seemed genuinely happy. He couldn't help smiling back at her.

"I know just the thing to cheer you up!" The little redhead reached into her basket and pulled out a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils. "How about a nice bunch of daffodils? They're on sale for only two pounds! Sounds expensive, I know, but these flowers come right from my own garden."

Spencer wanted to buy them, really he did, but he only had a twenty pound note, at least until the banks opened tomorrow. "I wish I could, but I don't have any change. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about that! I can change up to five pounds!"

The girl had such a sunny disposition. Her youthful optimism reminded him of Laurel... Impulsively he began searching his pockets. "I don't think I can... oh, wait, here's a pound." Spencer tossed the coin to her. "Hopefully that'll help you a little."

If she was dismayed, she gave no sign. "Thanks a lot, mister!"

He decided to step a little closer to the center, so he could avoid the rain and the noise. With a polite nod at the flower girl, he moved away to wait.

* * *

_Hmmph._ He had looked young and rich and handsome, and she had turned on the charm just for him. And what had she gotten out of it? One crummy pound.

Oh, well. It was better than nothing. Delia Ketchum put the pound in the pocket of her overalls, then glanced around to see who she could charm next.

"Psst!"

What was that? Was someone whispering to her?

"Hey! Flower girl! Over here!"

A trainer touched her left shoulder, then leaned down to whisper in her ear. "You'd better give him a flower for that money. I think you're being watched."

"Being watched?" Who would keep tabs on _her_?

"Yeah. There's a guy right behind this pillar, taking notes on you. I think he might be working for the cops."

"Taking notes on _me_?!?" Delia sprang up, dropping her basket. "What the hell is he taking notes on me for? I haven't done anything at all by speaking to that guy! I can sell flowers out here! I've been selling here for almost a year now. And that's all I'm doing, too, is selling flowers!"

Several people turned to look at her, but she could care less. No way was some cop going to arrest her for something perfectly legal and respectable. In fact--

Delia marched up to the young man who gave her a pound. "Hey, mister!" she yelled, making him jump. "Don't let them make false charges against me! Tell them what I said to you! I won't have anyone ruining my reputation for some silly false charge. Do you know what'll happen to me if I get arrested?"

The crowd around her was talking about her. "What's wrong?" "What's that girl talking about?" "Some cop's out here trying to arrest her."

She didn't care. In fact, she stomped her foot at the young man and screamed, "Go on, mister, tell them!" He stood there, looking like a deer caught in someone's headlights. Damned if she wasn't going to get an answer from him, though.

Suddenly she heard another voice. An older male voice, with an English accent. "There, there, now, you silly girl! Who's hurting you? What do you take me for?"

She whirled around. Her gaze fell upon an older man with a book in his hand. He was just coming around the pillar. So this was the guy taking notes on her, huh? She stormed up to him. "Look, I don't know what you're doing, but I swear I haven't said or done anything illegal--"

The man waved her words away. "Oh, shut up, shut up. Do I look like Officer Jenny to you?"

Well, clearly he didn't. He looked like a crazy old guy with a tweed fetish. But if he wasn't a dectective... "Well, if you're not with the cops, why are you taking notes on me? What are you writing about me? Show me what you wrote about me!"

"With pleasure." As the crowd pressed closer, he held the book open under her nose.

Delia squinted. He had terrible handwriting. "You expect me to read this chicken scratch? I can't read that."

"Chicken scratch? Impudent hussy! I'll have you know that this is perfectly acceptable handwriting!" But he pulled the book away from her and began to read. " 'I have just been presented with a challenge this evening. Young woman, perhaps two months into nineteen years of age, auburn-red hair, brown eyes, about five-five. American accent--I would guess from the Northeastern United States. I cannot tell what kind of trainer she is, simply because I can see no distinguishing characteristics of any type on her person. To be precise, I would guess that she has never trained a pokemon. I wonder if she's even touched one. Most extraordinary that our so-called rigid training system could turn out a person such as this.' " He snapped the book shut and smiled.

_Oh. So he wants to discriminate._ "I see. You're one of _those_."

"Those what? What are you going on about?"

"One of those detectives who discriminate against non-trainers! I've heard about you guys!" Delia glanced around and found the young man from earlier. He would help her--he seemed like a good guy. "Please, mister, don't let this guy talk to me that way. It's not fair to pick on a girl who doesn't train just because she doesn't."

"I quite agree!" The young man came to stand beside her. She felt an inward thrill when she noticed that she came to the young man's shoulder. _Yeah! This guy can kick this geezer's ass!_ "Really, sir, you shouldn't discriminate against this young woman. Just because she isn't a trainer is no reason to make up slanderous charges against her. Why, she can report you for this..."

"Bloody hell!" The older man threw his hands in the air. "Can't anyone see I'm not with the police!"

A random bystander pointed. "Anybody can tell this one's not a dectective. Look at his shoes. They don't look like they've been pounding the pavement."

The older man quickly opened his book and began taking notes. "Ah, young man, how long have you trained under Karate King Bruce at Saffron's Fighting Dojo?"

The bystander's mouth flew open. "Who told you I trained there?"

"Never mind that. You did." He made another note before turning back to Delia. "And you, my girl... what the devil are you doing in Kanto if you don't train Pokemon at all?"

See, _now_ look! That bastard was picking on her again! Delia felt tears spring to her eyes. "It's not like I wanted to come to this stupid country! My dad made me move here! If I had my choice..."

"Well, actually," and now the older man's voice held a note of scorn, "I couldn't care less. Go back to your bloody country. Just stop that awful screaming." Then he began perusing a number of bystanders.

Why... that... she had never been... She wanted to wring his snotty little neck!

In the end, though, she sank to her knees and began to cry.

She felt the gentle pressure of a hand on her shoulder. "Please don't cry," her protector murmured.

Who cared? She was tired of all of them! They all could go straight to hell!

* * *

"Sir!" And now that long-haired boy who looked as if he were an Eton reject was trying to break his concentration. "I really must insist that you apologize! You've made her cry!"

"Oh, dash the chit," he answered shortly. "She'll be fine after she's had a good cry." Of course she would. He couldn't be bothered by a stupid woman, not when he was on a roll...

But here came another blasted woman, hell bent on worrying him. "Excuse me, sir, _do_ you think you could find me a taxi?"

Ah. Lydia Lawson. Samuel knew her quite well, even without the little clues that gave her occupation away. How could someone not know a painted bird such as that? "Well, madam, I don't know if you've noticed with all the commotion, but it stopped raining about five minutes ago. You should have quite an easy time finding your car and getting back to the Viridian Gym."

At that remark, the crowd buzzed with excited murmurs, and Lydia raised her head and gave him a proud smile. She looked like a puffed-up pidgey, and he couldn't resist knocking her down a peg or two. "Of course, if I were you, madam, I would stop training whatever type gives off the gunpowder smell. You wouldn't want anything to backfire on you, now would you?"

Yes. It _was_ worth it all to see the shocked expression on her face. "Why, I _never_!" As she stalked off, leaving a confused crowd in her wake, he wondered how the devil she got away with being the Team Rocket leader when it was as plain as day that she was. That just proved how ignorant all these silly twits were.

"Say, if you can tell where people have trained, where did I train?" A younger boy, covered lightly in boulder dust. Easy enough.

"You've got Rock types. Pewter City."

"Well, who said I didn't?" The boy seemed more impressed than he should have been. "You know everything!"

The silly flower girl was mumbling to herself. Something about being a good girl caught in a bad scene. He promptly ignored her.

"You can't guess where I trained!" A girl in her twenties, with crystalized remnants of Nightshade around her and that otherworldly look in her eyes.

"Lavender Town. You've got the wee ghosties all over you, my dear. My sister trains with them, so I should definitely know that. You all are going to have to do better than that if you want to trick me."

"Well, since you know so much, where and what does _he_ train?" The ghost trainer was pointing to the Eton reject.

Hm. Difficult, but not challenging if you knew what to look for. "You're not from around here. I'm guessing Johto. Trained around Grass types when you were younger... gave it up because you weren't particularly good at it. Decided to go into research and attend university instead. Wait a moment and I'll tell you what type you study." Carefully kept hands, as if he needed to watch his hands... or touch things with them... things like old documents... "You study the Legendaries."

"Why... that's right. You're completely right." The boy flipped his hair back--what sort of man would willingly let his hair grow long?--and gaped at him. "How did you know? Do you do this for a living?"

The flower girl was calling him a no-good busybody. He promptly ignored her.

"Of a sort. I've trained and researched and taught for many years. I've been around Pokemon and seen their attack aftereffects for so long that I've learned what to look for. It's actually just simple training methodology. I'm pleased to say that it's my profession and my hobby."

"Oughta be ashamed of himself, the coward," the flower girl continued, growing ever louder. Why the devil didn't she shut up?

"Is there a living in training methodology?" the student of Legendaries asked. "It seems that most people want the hands-on approach to training."

"Not as much of one as there used to be, and that's a shame, because we need it now--"

"He should mind his own damn business," the flower girl continued, oblivious to the fact that she was ruining his concentration, "and leave a poor girl alone--"

"_Woman_!" Samuel roared at her, using the voice previously reserved for wayward trainers. "Cease your detestable chatter, or ruin the nerves of people at some other house of worship!"

She was quick to respond. "I've got just as much right to run my mouth here as you do!"

The insufferable wench needed a good shaking. "A woman who's as ignorant of the wonders of Pokemon training as _you_ are doesn't have the right to interrupt those who know something. Remember, Pokemon training is the divine spark for us, the fire that inspires us and drives us, just as it has inspired and driven generations of Kantians for ages. So don't sit there berating us just because your native land has no divine spark of equal value."

"Are you kidding?!?" She was having a veritable fit now, but he could ignore that. He could feel a lecture coming on. "I'll have you know that America is--"

"Look at this woman!" he cried, pointing an accusing finger at the silly wench. "She's never trained a day in her life, yet she has the gall to call me a busybody and a coward because I've merely told the truth--that she knows _nothing_. She cries out for vengeance in oppression of non-trainers, but she insults me because I believe that training is essential! I ask you--who is the real criminal here?"

Good, the stupid girl was ripping her hair out. "You started all this! You were taking notes on me!" But the crowd was on his side, and the Muse was giving him the proper words, so he continued.

"But I am a patient and forgiving man." Samuel placed a hand on his chest, gazed into the distance. "I don't blame _her_ for her ignorance in training. What should she think of trainers when she has such poor examples of proper training around her? I'm speaking, of course, of all of you." He pointed toward the crowd, now murmuring angrily. "No, no, think about it. How many of you train daily? How many of you know and understand all the potential powers of your monsters? How many of you really understand anything about Pokemon beyond whatever it takes to beat the next opponent or get the next badge?"

They were silent then. Samuel smirked. What could they say? He was absolutely correct. "You see, you all have lost the divine spark of training. You don't realize just how wonderful these creatures are and all the things they can do. You simply don't have the fundamentals of the monsters down yet." A dramatic pause, then, "And yet I don't blame you either. You all only know what the Gym Leaders and trainers around you tell you. And what do they tell you? 'Go out and just catch as many as you can. Just learn their attacks as you go. Who cares how you win, so long as you get those badges and win lots of money?' Those people, those who just do it for money and power and fame and a convenient way to skip school... those are the people I blame for such shoddy training today." He leaned against another pillar.

The long-haired whippersnapper gazed at him with a fascinated look. "Are your own methods of training different, then?"

"Well..." Samuel looked at the little flower girl. She was still mumbling to herself. "Let's consider our little non-training guttersnipe here."

"I'm not a guttersnipe!"

"Any other trainer her age might know a few things about their monsters by this point in their career. However, in six months, I can take this ignorant wretch and teach her more than the average trainer her age would know. Why, I'd wager that I can even pass her off as... as a Gym Leader, or at least a highly experienced and respected trainer. At the very least, as a person who can get along with trainers, which I think she'll find beneficial."

For once, she was quiet. "Really?"

He ambled over to her. "Yes, you squashed cabbage leaf, you disgrace to the hallowed halls of this cathedral, you incarnate insult to humanity, I could pass you off as the President of the Pokemon League."

And he knew he could, by God.

* * *

This old guy was clearly off his rocker, and from the look of things, he had taken her protector down with him.

And if she weren't careful, she'd fall off the rocker too. Imagine! She had almost thought that she might want to train someday... just for a little while...

How stupid! And how stupid of him to make her think he could turn her into a trainer overnight!

Delia shook her head. "Oh, come _on_. You don't expect me to believe that." She turned to her protector, hoping to snap him out of his thoughtful reverie. "Hey, mister, you don't believe he can do that, do you?"

Much to her surprise, the younger man laughed. "I don't know. Anything's possible. I've come to Kanto to study stuff like this from a man with similar ideas. Tell me, sir," he said, addressing the old guy, "have you ever met Professor Samuel Oak?"

"Met him? My boy, I _am_ Professor Samuel Oak."

A gun could have fired with less commotion. The crowd murmured excitedly again--"Well, how about that?" "I thought he would be taller"-- but Delia was hopelessly confused. Was this guy actually important?

"Who the devil are you?" he asked the young man.

"I'm Spencer Hale, third year doctoral at the University of Johto-Ecruteak. I'm currently under the direction of James Westwood, and he suggested that I come to Pallet Town to study with you--"

"James Westwood! Why, you're the marvelous boy he keeps threatening to send me! He's been carrying on about you and how brilliant you are. I was just about to come out to Ecruteak and get you!"

Oh. So they were both important people...

"Tell me, my boy, where are you staying?" And suddenly the men were walking off together.

"Well, I thought I'd find a little apartment in the city, or perhaps a little cottage in Pallet--"

"No, you won't. You'll stay right at my lab in Pallet Town. No one's there now except for myself and my housekeeper, so we have plenty of space."

Wait a minute! No way was this guy going to wreck her nerves and walk away without her getting something out of the deal! She grabbed her basket and ran after them. "Wait a minute!" They turned to look at her. "Buy a bouquet of flowers? Come on, I'm short on dinner money."

The older man smirked. "Little liar. You said you had five pounds in change--that ought to be enough."

If she hadn't been so furious with him, she might have noticed that he had a point. But she didn't. Instead, she got royally pissed off. _Why, the nerve of... Oooooh! I could just kill him!_ Delia hurled the basket at the man, hoping to knock that smirk right off his face. "You oughta be dragged into the street and shot! Take the whole damn basket for two pounds!"

"Why, you _hellion_--"

The chimes of St. Martin's carillion sounded then, marking midnight.

He glanced up at the steeple and smiled. "You're right as usual, Audrey. 'Be charitable.' All right, then." He dropped her basket, reached into his pocket, and poured a heap of change upon the badly beaten daffodils. The _clink, clink_ of the coins echoed off the concrete pillars.

Delia's eyes grew large. She looked at the older man. He smirked, raised his hat in a mocking salute, and resumed his conversation with her protector. "So... Spencer, is it? How long have you studied with that bloody fool Westwood?"

"Well, a year and a half. I'd originally thought I wanted to study the Legendaries, but recently I've been wondering if I should go on the training track..."

They faded into the night.

Delia ran to her basket and knelt next to it. One pound--another two pound coin--no, two two pound coins!--five one pound coins!... Why, there must be at least twenty pounds worth of change here!

"Hey, check it out!" A saxophone player she knew from the area laughed as he came up to her. "Looks like Delia's come into the family millions!"

"Aw, shut up and use that hot air to make that saxophone work, Wes." She punched his arm lightly before beginning the long walk home.

He followed her anyway, his street quartet in tow. "Say, what are you gonna do with all that money?"

"Maybe go out to Valentino's and have the _escargot_?" the bass player asked.

"Take a trip to Puerta Vista for the weekend?" the clarinetist teased.

"Hell, I don't know." She shrugged. "I do know that I'm going to at least think about paying the phone bill... and I'm definitely going to buy a really huge Cadbury bar! I think I've earned it!"

"Just think, Delia," the drummer said, "if you'd only go off and train somewhere, you could rake in dough like that every five seconds."

She blew a raspberry at him. "Come _on_, Chuck, you know better than that. Look at Pop. He's out there training and he's poor as dirt."

"Sure you don't want to go out and train, ever?"

"Nah. I'd like to live the high life like all those guys up in the gym there. Who wouldn't? But all I need is a roof over my head, with working heat and lights, enough food to eat, and enough space to grow my flowers."

However, later that night, after she'd comfortably settled in bed, she'd gazed up at the cracked ceiling and wondered.

Could that professor person _really_ make her a good trainer?

Because if she actually were a trainer, she might be good enough to get the life she _really_ wanted. A nice big house like the ones out at the Vineyard. Lots of money to use however she wanted--for pigging out or five telephone lines or tons of chocolate... Godiva chocolate. A huge yard to have four or five different gardens. Perhaps a really nice boy who would adore her... and all the respect in the world.

_Boy, I'm really being stupid tonight. Training's not going to bring me the life I want. It's not going to bring me instant money and fame and respect. The only things that can do that are hard work, perseverance, and a lucky break. The only thing I need for the moment is a lucky break. _Not_ a lesson on some stupid house pets._

With that thought, she lulled herself into a peaceful sleep.


	3. Act 1, Scene 2: The Bet Remembered

Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer 1.2 

**A Firm Avowal of the Lack of Authorial Rights**: The Author of this delightful and charming work wishes that her faithful Readers will acknowledge her Lack of Ownership of Anything contained within this work of fiction. The Characters, which she has seen fit to adopt to this tale, belong to Mister Tajiri and the Corporations who have paid him well to use them. The Story, which she has seen fit to use in her fashion, is based upon the play _Pygmalion_, by the Delightful Mister George Bernard Shaw, and the musical _My Fair Lady_, by Messrs. Lerner and Loewe. Please, gentle Holders of Copyright, do not sue the fair Author, as she is forced to live in Abject Poverty.

**Gentle Reader**: The Author gives most humble thanks and blessings to her faithful Reviewers, all of whom she loves very much. She also thanks them immensely for being quite fond of this silly little Tale. The Author continues to ask for Forgiveness in getting Bostonian tone down correctly, but certainly you, dear Reader, will understand that trying to write a Conversation between two native Bostonians is a Delight, or "Wicked Frickin' Pissa," to the Author. As always, the Author salutes the worthy institution known as the Eldershipping Brigade. This tale is eternally for Mademoiselle Harrington, from her most obliged and humble Servant, the Author. Please do send the Author your comments on this odd piece of Fiction.

  


**Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer**

_Being a Romance by Latonya Wright_

**Act 1, Scene 2**: _The Bet Remembered_

_Viridian City, 1987_

Okay. So he'd gotten caught in the rain right outside Viridian City last night, and had been forced to camp out in the wet wilderness.

He didn't mind that too much. It hadn't been the first time such a thing had happened to him, and it probably wouldn't be the last time. Still, Drake Ketchum welcomed the opportunity to get to his apartment for fresh and dry clothes, a hot shower, a warm bowl of oatmeal, and a little bit of money to treat himself to a beer. After he dropped his Pokemon off at the Pokemon center for some much needed healing, he headed straight for the apartments at Wimpole Street.

It was a good morning for walking through Viridian anyway. Wall to wall people, of all ages and sizes, walking with monsters and packages and suitcases and bookbags; cars and carts and bikes and animals and walkers and joggers; street vendors and big corporate chains; and the brilliant sunlight sparkling off the windows from the towers of the skyscrapers, the sides of the Pokemon center, the gilt edges of the Gym, and the ratty protective fences of the little corner shops.

Drake knew his kid hated it here, but damned if he knew why, because on mornings like this it looked just like Boston. Damned if he knew why his kid was always so upset with _him_, too. Hadn't he given her a good life? First off, he'd had the decency to give her life in the greatest city in the world. Then, after Melina had died, he'd had the good sense to bring Delia to another part of the world--to "expand her horizions," as the brains in Cambridge would put it. Next, he'd had the good sense to come to a wicked city like this that was almost as good as home. And he'd turned her loose in this city to do whatever the hell she wanted, and he'd had the grace enough to leave her alone and let her do it! Any other kid would have been grateful... he just didn't get it.

Drake finally made it to Wimpole Street and put his key in the lock at 27-A, fully set to face his kid's shock and fury. Instead, he came face to face with a young woman who was absolutely not his daughter. If he squinted a bit and ignored the woman's dirty face and ludicrous hat, she might have been a bit like Delia, but...

"Here now, Charlie!" the woman squawked. "Who are you, tryin' to come into my house as if you own the place?"

"What're ya talkin' about? This is _my_ house! Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Eliza, and I tell ya this is _my house_, make no mistake! I've lived here for nigh on six months now!"

Drake blinked. "Well, what happened to Delia Ketchum? The girl who used to live here?"

"How should I know? All I know is, the apartment was empty when they rented it to me, and so here I am. And now, if you don't mind, I should like to go about my business!" She practically shoved him out of the apartment.

So his kid had moved away, huh? Wow, she must be doing better on her own than he thought! Maybe she'd finally gotten a nice job in a flower shop, or gone off to one of these colleges. Maybe she'd actually found a nice boy and gotten married or something. Whatever happened, her change in fortune meant better living and more money for him! At least, until he earned his Pokemon Master fortune...

Of course, he had to find Delia first. Drake vaguely remembered that she used to sell flowers over in the Theatre District. If she still worked there, he might see her; if she didn't, perhaps someone there would know where she went. And there was a good chance he'd run into someone he knew who might be open to letting him have a little dough...

Hey, speaking of which, here came this trainer he knew right now. He put on his best smile and used his most jovial tone. "Hey, Allen, how are ya?"

"Not a pound, Drake," Allen said, not even slowing down as they passed each other.

Okay, maybe Allen was still pissed off about not being paid back for the last loan. Well, he saw another trainer he knew standing at the crosswalk on the corner. He remembered Sally--she was a good kid... "Hey, Sally. How's it goin'?"

She didn't even turn to look at him. "Not a pound, Drake," she snapped before crossing the street.

Hm. Maybe he shouldn't have made her a hit-and-run... Hey! Out there in front of St. George's Tavern! It was good ol' Alfie sweeping the street! "Good morning, Alfie! How's life over there at St. George's?"

Alfie stopped sweeping long enough to glare at Drake. "Not a brass farthing, Drake. And don't bring yourself in here unless you got some money for your beer. I ain't runnin' a charity, you know." Alfie went back to sweeping, leaving Drake momentarily dumbfounded.

_Is this how they reward hard work and perseverance around here? What kind of a place is this?_ Still, he was feeling lucky this morning. Certainly his kid was doing well enough to spare some money for her dear old man.

To his surprise and dismay, when he got to the Theatre District, he saw a familiar redhead with long pigtails behind a cart full of flowers. Great, so his kid hadn't gotten a better job! Well, maybe she did it for love of the game. Or, maybe her husband just let her do it as a way to give her something to do every day. Either way, she had more money than he did.

He tiptoed up to her, then announced joyously, "Delia! Look who's back in town, huh?"

She didn't even turn around. "Not a dime, Pop."

"Hey! Is that any way to welcome your old man back home? Then again, is movin' out to another place and not tellin' me a proper thing to do, either?"

She glared at him over her shoulder. "Is comin' back to town and stealin' your kid's food and rent money a proper thing to do?"

"Can't be too hard livin'. Ya moved!" He took control of the nearby stool. "Tell me, kid, ya got married yet?"

"Have you lost your mind? Who the hell wants to marry me?"

"Dammit. Well, how'd you get enough money to move?"

"Took all my savings for the down. You oughta see it. Nice yard for flowers. House has plenty of charm and character."

"Ya sound like one of those Barnyard realtors there... wait, so you got a _house_? And you got enough money to get those flowers the kinda fertilizer you like? So that means you've got enough to slip me a fiver, huh?"

Well, apparently she didn't think he sounded desperate enough, because she looked highly pissed. "Come _on_, Pop! I'm tired of you comin' by long enough to take my money!"

"Aw, take pity on your old man, Delia! I've been on the road, I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm wet... surely I've earned a little reward for all that!" And he gave her the whipped puppy look that had always worked on Melina.

She sighed. "Jeez, Pop... Well, it's your lucky day, 'cause I've got some extra cash. I had a little bit of luck myself last night." She pulled a ten-pound note from her pocket and handed it to him. "Ran into a guy who left me a really nice tip."

Drake whistled as he took the money. "No sir!"

"Ya-huh! He was a wicked quayre guy, though. One of those faker Brahmins, you know? Talked real funny and looked down his nose." She giggled. "He was talkin' about how wonderful Pokemon were, and how I had to be ignorant for never trainin' 'em. Tellin' ya what, though, I cracked on 'em a coupla times."

"Didn't you find out who he was?"

"Said his name was Oak. Professor Oak."

"Oh, Gawd. No kiddin'? That guy's wicked famous and wicked smart. Everybody thinks he's some kinda god. You're soft to crack on him."

She blew a raspberry. "Aw, wicked smart my ass. At heart he's frickin' hoopie just like everyone else over here. Anyway, where ya goin' now?"

"Figured I might go down to the bar for a beer--"

"Come _on_, Pop, you aren't gonna spend my good luck money on a beer! And it's only ten in the morning anyway!"

"Nah, you come on. You can't expect me to go on without celebratin' my successful journey through Kanto somehow, huh?"

"Did you get all the Boy Scout badges, then?"

"Yep. Well, all except the Viridian one, and I'm gonna get that one tomorrow, after I've gotten all rested up. Hey, lemme tell ya about all the people I met on the way--"

Delia nodded her head towards the people walking by. "I'm on the job, Pop. Tell me later tonight. Here, lemme give ya the key..." She pulled her keychain from the pocket of her overalls and handed it to him. "It's 240 Silas Lane, think you can remember that?"

"I wasn't born yesterday, ya know."

"Whatever. Just don't lose my frickin' keys, ya chowdahead."

As he sauntered off, Drake called over his shoulder, "Thanks, kid. You're a good daughter!" Because she was, even if she didn't fully appreciate all he'd done for her.

On the way to the center of town, Drake passed by St. George's again. He paused for just a moment outside the door. His kid had made some pretty good points: it was kinda early for a beer, and he shouldn't waste his money on beer, and he really should find home and change...

Then again, who was he to tempt Fate? Fate had found him his kid and some money, and the least he could do was thank the gods accordingly, right?

He walked into the bar, holding the ten above his head. "Hey, Alfie! We friends again with the arrival of this little baby? How about a Bud, huh?"

* * *

Well, all things considered, he was a pretty piss poor Pop, but he was hers. Besides, it was good to speak Bostonian again. Delia shook her head and went back to flower selling. She had to make some extra money to cover the expenses of having a big, burly deer drinker in the house, after all.

As the day passed, however, Delia wondered if her father's arrival had brought bad luck too. She saw her profits dwindle and her merchandise's value, well...

One woman had come up to her with an armful of packages. "Good day, young lady. I've got a fabulous dinner party this evening, and I'd like a few flower arrangements for the table, you know. Something very pretty and elegant, with big, gorgeous flowers, yes?"

She had put on her best smile and her most pleasing manners. "Wonderful. I've got just the arrangement for you. Have a look at this! Lovely little pansies--purple and yellow here, but I can get them in any color you want, in case you want to accessorize. Nice size, so the guests can see them and the people across the table."

The woman had frowned at the delicate petals. "Oh, my... these are awfully small, aren't they?"

"They're the same size as any others."

The woman shook her head. "No, I've got a friend who grows flowers. She's got a marvelous garden up in the Village, you know, just past her gates... and her pansies are much larger than this. In fact, all your flowers look a little smaller than hers. Tell me, what fertilizer do you use?"

"The 10-10-10 standard--ten parts nitrogen, ten parts phosphate, ten parts pot ash. Same as they use on the lawns of the White House!" she added with a giggle.

"Ah... tell me, what Pokemon do you use to enhance that formula? Because my friend has a lovely Sunflora she uses to add some sort of chemical to her soil, too."

_Come on, lady, if your friend's so good at this, why don't you get _her_ damn flowers?_ But Delia lifted her chin and gave the woman the most winning smile she could muster. "I'm happy to say that I don't use any monsters at all to enhance my flowers. What you see comes straight from my own garden, and grown just the way we do it in America--the all-natural way."

"Oh, dear." The woman shook her head again. "Well, young lady, it might help a bit if you got a monster to help out. I'd like to buy some of your flowers, but... well, forgive my bluntness, dear, and don't take it as an insult, but they're simply not big and bright and beautiful enough for my dinner party."

_Why... my flowers are the best and most beautiful in the whole city!_ But she couldn't say that, because the woman might decide that she liked her flowers better later! So she kept smiling and said, "That's all right. I hope you find what you're looking for. Thanks for stopping by, and thanks for the advice--I'll try it."

_Yeah_, Delia snapped inwardly at the woman's retreating, tottering form, _I'll try it when Hell freezes._

Half an hour later, better luck struck, but...

A cute young man came up to her cart, whistling a happy tune. He'd looked around for a few moments before pausing before her favorite bouquet--a rainbow of colorful crysanthemums. "Oh, yes," he'd muttered, "this is perfect. Just perfect."

"Yeah," she answered. "That's one of my favorite arrangements there. Getting some flowers for your sweetheart?"

His shy smile and faint blush were really, really adorable. "Well... I _guess_. Not really a sweetheart, but a really good friend."

Aw. Too bad. Sounded like he was trying to make her more than friends. Oh, well. "Well, she'll like those a lot."

"Yeah, I think she will. I'll get two bouquets. That should be enough for her."

He'd paid for them, and Delia thrilled to see the money in her hand. Imagine that--he'd thought her flowers were good enough for the woman he wanted! And he was willing to pay for them!

The boy stepped back, pulled a small red ball from his pocket. "Pokeball, go!" he cried, tossing the ball into the air. A flash of light... and suddenly an ugly, fat, pink animal with a horrendously long tongue was standing next to Delia.

"Licki!" the thing yelled, causing Delia to jump backwards.

The boy knelt next to the _thing_. "Look, Asuka! I've got the perfect gourmet treat for you today! How do you like these flowers?" He held them out to the animal.

Delia stood in stunned silence. _You mean... he bought my beautiful flowers... for _that_?_

The animal unfurled its tongue and grabbed the bouquets in one scoop. The trainer grinned; the thing chewed; and Delia stared with huge eyes.

Then the thing coughed, turned towards Delia's loafers, and spit the chewed flowers right on her. "Licki tung!" it announced, folding its fat piggy arms over its chest.

"Sorry," the boy said sheepishly. "She's a really picky eater."

_My flowers are only good for Pokemon food?! I oughta knock this guy into the stratosphere!_ But the kid wouldn't take his money back, despite her attempts to give him a refund for flawed goods, so Delia smiled and carried on.

At about five-thirty, the evening's theatre crowd began arriving for dinner before the shows. She usually did pretty well, but tonight...

Delia had smiled, been her most charming. She'd had a few customers--mostly people around her age, college kids, the grungy types, who bought the cheapest arrangements because they were just as poor as she was. She couldn't land the rich people though, and she couldn't understand why!

Two people passed her, dressed in lavish dresses of silk and chiffon. She grinned at them, hoping that these would be the ones to make a big purchase. At first they passed her. She frowned and returned to clipping the thorns from the single roses.

After taking a few more paces away from her cart, however, one woman stopped and looked back. "Oh, look, Virginia, flowers! I want to get some to throw at Luciano when he's taking his bows."

Delia smiled to herself, but she didn't look up.

The other woman spoke then. "No, Margie, you mustn't buy from that girl. I've heard the most dreadful things about her."

_Heard about me? Who's talking about me?_ She didn't look at them. If they thought she couldn't hear them, she might learn more...

"Goodness. She looks like such a sweet thing. What could she possibly do that's so bad?"

"She's been known to brag about not using Pokemon to make those ratty little flowers!"

Delia stiffened. _These are the people I should watch out for._ She continued to clip the thorns carefully.

"Not use Pokemon? How can she get by... I wonder why she doesn't?"

"I suppose she thinks she's better than the rest of us. All hoity-toity because she does things all on her own, without our 'horrid critters.'"

_No! That's not why! I don't do it because I'm arrogant... do I? I just wanted to prove that people could get by just fine without having to train... I wanted to prove that there was more to life than that, that people can be satisfied in life with no monsters--_

"As if the way she does things is any better!" The second woman's insults grew louder, more hateful to her ears. "If her way of life were so great, she would be doing more than selling flowers on the street! Just look at her! Drooping flowers, ragged cart... and what in Heaven's name is all over her shoes? I know Andrew doesn't look much better when he's out on the road, but at least I know he's coming by his looks honestly!"

The scissors in her hand still cut the thorns, even as her teeth drew blood from her lip.

"The poor girl," the first woman was saying. "Her life can't be so easy without Pokemon. I should buy from her just to help her."

_No! I don't want your damn pity!_

"Don't you dare! Your husband got that money through all his Pokemon victories. I'll not have you spending it on a girl who doesn't respect his way of life. No, if she wants to be arrogant and foolish towards us, let her, but she'll never profit by it. There's a girl the next street over who I've seen with a Bellsprout--let's go to her flower cart."

_Yeah, but who respects _my_ way of life? Doesn't anybody ever think of that, just once?_

The scissor's blade sliced into her finger, and she yelped. She could feel the hurt and angry tears welling in her eyes. It wasn't fair, it _wasn't fair_--

She leapt up, placed her stool underneath the cart, and grabbed the cart's handles. "Hey, Delia, where ya goin'?" the Italian ice vendor near her called. "This is the time we start making money! You can't leave now!"

"Screw it," she yelled back, pushing her way through the crowd. "I'm not in the mood to deal with people tonight. I'll make it up tomorrow." The truth was, if she stayed she'd hear more of the same. _Your flowers aren't good enough for anyone. You're just a fool for refusing to train. You'll never amount to anything around here without a monster._ She didn't feel like dealing with Pop and with pushy, stupid people today. She could at least tune Pop out.

The walk through the District didn't do a damn thing to calm her nerves. If anything, it made her even jumpier. Finally, when she heard the chimes of a church over her head, Delia dropped the cart's handles, picked up a bouquet of crysanthemums, and slammed it on the street. "Here's what I think of your stupid bells and your stupid country!" she yelled at the columns.

Then she blinked. _Oh... it's the church from last night._ How could she have forgotten that place? It was a good tipping spot, even if the people hanging out there were really rude and obnoxious.

Instantly the crazy old guy's words floated through her mind. _"A woman who's as ignorant of the wonders of Pokemon training as _you_ are doesn't have the right to interrupt those who know something."_

Hmmph. Yeah, that guy wasn't any better than the women earlier. The last thing she needed was a mental catalogue of all the ways she'd been pissed upon in the last twenty-four hours. She picked up the handles... and paused again.

_"I don't blame _her_ for her ignorance in training."_

... Well, maybe he should. Maybe the women had a point too. When it came right down to it, she really didn't know a lot about the house pets that were so important around here. And hadn't she been a little bit arrogant about it? Hadn't she thought that running around to get all the trinkets was pretty damn stupid? How could she say and think such things when she'd never done it herself? Yeah, that was arrogant and ignorant, and _she_ had a lot of nerve.

But how could she possibly learn about them? Getting a book didn't seem like the right way to do it. Most people didn't use books anyway. At least Pop hadn't. He'd just gone down to the Gym, picked up a little blue thing with a horn on its head, and gone on his way. She could do that... but dammit, she didn't want to leave town and go playing in the woods for months. Besides, the guy last night had said that wasn't the way to do it, either. _"You all only know what the Gym Leaders and trainers around you tell you. And what do they tell you? 'Go out and just catch as many as you can. Just learn their attacks as you go. Who cares how you win, so long as you get those badges and win lots of money?'"_

Did that guy know a way to do it without leaving town and without having to run around and pick up trinkets? Well, clearly he must have. _"In six months, I can take this ignorant wretch and teach her more than the average trainer her age would know. I can even pass her off as... as a Gym Leader, or at least a highly experienced and respected trainer. At the very least, as a person who can get along with trainers, which I think she'll find beneficial."_

And that was the important thing--learning how to get along with these people, so she could earn their respect. Maybe so she could even have a little bit of respect for them, too.

_Wonder if this guy would be willing to teach me about Pokemon and training and all that stuff?_

His name was Professor Oak. He apparently had a lab over in Pallet Town. If she went there tomorrow and asked him for training lessons, he might take her on... if she offered him the right amount for his services. She hated to spend money on that, but it was a necessary evil. Or, funding for her lucky break. Thinking of it like that made it a lot easier to tolerate.

Delia felt a lot better, now that she'd decided on a plan of action. She felt good enough to stop in a bookstore and pick up a book on Pokemon. After all, she couldn't go to the Professor looking like a total fool, could she?

* * *

Oh, yeah. She'd wasted her money on this place? What a joke.

Drake cracked open a Bud and sank back on the couch. Oh, well. It was home. At least he had beer--though right now he thought he'd sell his soul for a Sam Adams.

His kid came through the door. "Hey, Pop, how'd ya--" She wrinkled her nose. "Phew! Gawd, Pop, you smell! Take a bath, ya frickin' Soap!"

"In a _quality_ house like this one, there's no hot water, kid. Wanna beer?" Because he had to offer, but he was secretly hoping that she'd refuse.

"Hello, light dawns over Marblehead! _Boil_ the water!" To his dismay, she took another can out of the twelve pack. Damn, less for him. "I think I need this today, Pop."

"Bad day, kid?" he asked while she plopped down next to him.

"Kind of. Stupid friggin' people. Stupid friggin' me." She opened up the beer can and set it down before pulling out a slick-looking magazine. "Plus, I need a drop of liquid courage, so I won't chicken out tomorrow."

"Chicken out? Whatcha gonna do?"

"I think I'm gonna go ask about training lessons in the morning."

Had he heard her right? Did _Delia_ actually say she was going to _training lessons_? "Ya mean ya wanna train, kid? You serious about that?"

"Yeah, I'm serious. Look, I went and bought a book and everything." She held up the book, and he squinted at the cover. _A Beginner's Guide to Pokemon._ "That guy who left me the tip last night--the wicked crazy one, who you said was wicked smart--he said he could teach me how to do it in six months. So I'm gonna ask him if I can take lessons from him tomorrow."

"Well! Hell of a surprise. You got money to do that?"

"Not really. But it's a worthwhile investment around here, so I'll spend it."

How about that? She even seemed hell-bent on training. Hell of a turnaround for the girl who had proclaimed, "I'd rather die than train these things!" Drake idly wondered what caused that change... Aw, it didn't matter. "Well, good luck to ya, kid."

"Thanks, Pop. Hey, ya never know. I might end up being as good as you are!"

"Sure ya will. Remember, Bostonians can do anything if they put their minds to it."

Father and daughter sat there in a comfortable silence, drinking beer (though she only sipped from her can). Drake watched Delia as she read her training book; from her furrowed brow, he could tell that she was reading even though she was confused.

Dammit. He hated moments like this. Watching her was giving him an attack of parental feeling. He didn't necessarily hate that, but he hated worrying about his kid.

Because on one level he was glad she'd finally given in and decided to learn about Pokemon. On another level, however, he didn't want his little girl running around in the wild. She wasn't suited for that kind of life anyway. _He_ was, but she wasn't. Melina's kid should have gold and diamonds and mansions and gardens, not tempermental monsters and cold nights on the ground.

Whatever. She wanted to do it, and if it helped her get by around here, it was fine by him. With any luck, she'd get bored with it and go back to a more normal life, like college or something. Or maybe she'd meet a rich trainer along the way and get married and not worry about working at all. Those options were better. Anything that made them money with little or no effort was good.

Drake nodded, crushed the empty beer can against his head, and reached for another one.

* * *

Delia frowned at the book.

These things didn't go by normal classes, like mammal or reptile or amphibian--they had _types_.

These things didn't grow up--they _evolved_, and they changed their names when they did it, too.

They didn't just scratch or bite--they _attacked_, with powders and arms and whatever the hell else they had or made on their bodies.

When they lost energy, they couldn't just rest to get it back--you had to take them to a special place or feed them special stuff or give them haircuts. (How the hell did that help?)

It all looked _really_ confusing and really stupid.

Well, she'd tried. No sense in going to the guy if she understood it all right away, anyhow. Wasn't she going to pay him to teach her all about it? She'd worry about learning it all tomorrow.

Delia tossed the book behind the couch and grinned at her father. "Well, enough of that for right now. We gotta worry about dinner. Come on, chowdahead, let's see if we can't find some cheap eats."


	4. Act 1, Scene 3: The Bet Made

Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer 1.3 

**A Firm Avowal of the Lack of Authorial Rights**: The Author of this Delightful and Charming Work wishes that her faithful Readers will acknowledge her Lack of Ownership of Anything contained within this work of Fiction. The Characters, which she has seen fit to adopt to this tale, belong to Mister Tajiri and the Corporations who have paid him well to use them. The Story, which she has seen fit to use in her fashion, is based upon the play _Pygmalion_, by the Delightful Mister George Bernard Shaw, and the musical _My Fair Lady_, by Messrs. Lerner and Loewe. Please, gentle Holders of Copyright, do not sue the fair Author, as she is forced to live in Abject Poverty.

**Gentle Reader**: The Author continues to praise and bless her faithful Reviewers, all of whom she loves very much. She adores knowing that you enjoy her silly Tale. This time, the Author must ask for Forgiveness in trying to make a suitably realistic lab environment. She is an Insufferable Git who knows nothing of Science, but she has resolved to Fake It. She must also apologize for the length of the Scene. However, it may interest you, dear Reader, to know that the Author speaks from Experience when describing the Terror of Rats and the Wonders of Chocolate. As always, the Author salutes the worthy institution known as the Eldershipping Brigade. This tale is continually for Mademoiselle Harrington, the wisest writer of her Generation, from her most obliged and humble Servant, the Author. Please do send the Author your comments on this odd piece of Fiction.

  


**Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer**

_Being a Romance by Latonya Wright_

**Act 1, Scene 3**: _The Bet Made_

_Pallet Town, May 1987_

Spencer Hale had been in Kanto for a little over a day and a half now.

When he'd first considered coming here, he had thought that he wouldn't mind Kanto so much. Leaving his university's halls had been bittersweet, but he knew he could come back if he found his work in Kanto displeasing. Leaving his parents, who had wanted to keep their only child close to home, had been hard, but he had convinced them that this move would make him more marketable back home. Leaving Laurel had been downright difficult, but he knew he could always call and write her, perhaps even take the train or a flight home for a weekend if being away from her became impossible to bear. All these things had challenged him, but he'd always thought that it would be nice to be away from home, to get a change of scenery and a new angle on his studies. Being away from Johto for six months, maybe even a year, would be good for him.

Now, however, after only a day and a half--_a day and a half_!--he was ready to get away from Kanto and back to the relative safety and ease of life in Johto.

Professor Westwood had warned him. "Studying with Samuel Oak is _not_ for the faint of heart." Spencer didn't think that his mentor knew just how hardcore studying with Samuel Oak would be.

The first night, they had gotten to Pallet Town at one in the morning. Though Spencer had yawned, had tried to excuse himself politely, the Professor had insisted upon showing him around the whole area--both the laboratory and preserve--right then. He hadn't gotten to bed until three-thirty.

The next morning, he had been awakened by a voice roaring, "_Mrs. Pearce_!" Apparently the Professor was leading his housekeeper on a merry chase to make properly toasted bread--toasted only on one side, covered with proper rhubarb jam thereafter. Spencer had staggered into the hallway and come face to face with the Professor, who had responded to his "good morning" by flinging a thick, heavy book at him. "We'll begin the day by discussing Beech's _Compendium on Training Methodology_, Volume 1. Well, why are you standing there like a gaping idiot? Get to work!"

The rest of the day had gone downhill from there. Someone had called the Professor--some woman who answered to his repeated epithet of "silly old bat"--and angered him. "What the devil do I care about a blasted Trainers' Invitational? First, that's six months away, and I care only about those things I can control right now. Second, I'll not have a trainer good enough to compete anyway, so why should I care?" She had laughed and called him a senseless imbecile. He had hung up on her and come to Spencer with a tirade on the incompetence and foolishness of the Elite Four. Being not well-versed in Kantian politics, Spencer failed to see how this quickly became an order for _him_ to go outside and clean up Pokemon droppings.

_This_ morning, he and the Professor were down in the lab, poring over a number of printouts analyzing the DNA of various Grass-types. They had moved up to Grass-types at ten, having spent the hours of nine, eight, and seven analyzing Bug, Rock, Ground, and Water respectively.

"Now, Spencer, tell me how many differences you see in these two samples."

"Erm..." Spencer squinted. They both looked the same to his eyes. Still, perhaps if he turned the page upside down... "Fifteen?"

"Off by thirty."

"You mean..." Spencer's eyes were now tiny slits as he peered at the paper. "How?"

"Well, first, look at the fifteenth sector here. Do you see how the sequences in the code there vary? This is the primary difference between a normal Chikorita, level fifteen and a Chikorita who's been taught Cut."

"Oh." Spencer nibbled his lip, then asked, "What does that have to do with training?" 

"Plenty! The attacks you teach a Pokemon have a drastic effect on what they'll learn later. Granted, this is only a theory I'm testing, but I believe that--"

And then he went into a convoluted explanation of DNA mutations and chemical babble, ending with "The answer is clear. Know your Pokemon and what they are capable of doing." With a satisfied nod, as if that explained everything.

Spencer considered himself fairly intelligent and fairly clever. Therefore, he didn't understand why he couldn't see the leaps in logic. Well, he hadn't gotten much rest lately. His brains must be mush by now. "This is all very fascinating, Professor, really. But I'm quite worn out. I don't suppose we could take a break?"

"Nonsense. We'll take a break for tea at four. Now, let's have a look at these samples--" He waved around a stack of printouts.

Spencer closed his eyes and prayed for a diversion.

Apparently the gods heard him, because it came a few moments later, with the arrival of Mrs. Pearce, the housekeeper. She was a middle-aged, pudgy woman, who carried the years of dealing with the Oak household eccentricities on her face. At times she could be polite and even friendly, but most of the time she was mostly snappish and severe. (That might be why the Professor kept her around.) Spencer thanked his lucky stars--but then again, from her expression, Spencer could tell that the reason for her interruption was _not_ a happy one.

"Yes, Mrs. Pearce?" the Professor snapped over his shoulder.

"There is a young woman here to see you, sir."

"Young woman?" He tossed the papers down on his desk. "What the devil does she want?"

"She won't tell me. She says it's 'business of a personal nature.'"

Spencer glanced at the older man. That line sounded questionable, and Spencer wondered just what the nature of this "business" was. But the Professor looked completely baffled. "Well, does she look like a trainer?"

"She doesn't look like one. I thought she might be one of the new trainers this season."

"How peculiar." The older man frowned. Spencer must have seemed confused, for he explained, "I don't see too many young women here--I've left too many of their mothers close to tears in the past. Since she's here... Send her down, Mrs. Pearce."

"All right, sir, but don't come complaining to me if the girl vexes you." She left, and the Professor grinned at him as he strode over to a nearby cabinet.

"Well, this is rather a bit of luck for us, isn't it? You'll get to see how I train these foolish children. And I have a new means of monitoring everyone's progress--I can't believe I've never done this before." He unpacked a videocamera from a nearby bag and began setting it up on a tripod. "We'll video her lessons, and I'll give you the tapes when we've finished. Anytime you need to remind yourself of the proper way to do things, you can put this in your player. Sort of a guide, hey?"

"Sure, that sounds very useful." Spencer wanted the monotonous but infinitely easier task of running the videocamera. However, knowing his luck lately, it seemed highly unlikely. He sank into a nearby chair and waited for the next command.

After a moment, Mrs. Pearce entered, with a familiar face in tow. "This is the young woman, sir."

"One moment--where is the blasted recording light--Aha! All right, proceed."

The young woman stepped forward, head held high, red hair braided in two neat pigtails, brilliant smile shining from her face. Why, it was the flower girl from his first night here! She was still a cute little thing, and despite his firm belief in the sanctity of engagement, Spencer found himself straightening his hair, tucking in his shirt, trying to arrange his lab jacket so it wouldn't look quite so bulky on his thin frame.

"Good morning, Professor Oak, how are you today? I know you must be busy, but I'll try not to take up much of your time--"

"Oh, _no_. _Not_ you again, you common wretch."

Spencer whirled around to glare at the Professor. Was that any way to treat a lady, especially one as well-mannered and as neat as this girl? But the Professor was giving her the same glare. "Mrs. Pearce, this isn't a young woman, this is a reckless hellion who sells flowers on Viridian's streets. No, absolutely not," he told the girl, "I know what you've come here for, you despicable little beggar. You've come to weasel more charity out of me, and I won't have it. Perhaps if you hadn't shied those flowers at me, I could tolerate you. But you did, so I can't. Be off with you. Now," he went on smoothly, perusing the camera, "where's the bloody record button, I've lost it again--"

"Hey! Wait just a minute!" For her part, the girl had a fairly hateful stare of her own for him. "Accusing me of stuff and then throwing me out, and you haven't even heard what I want yet!" She turned to Mrs. Pearce and asked, "Didn't you tell him that thing I said about 'business'? Can't you deliver a message right?"

Big mistake. Mrs. Pearce looked ready to grab a ruler from the Professor's desk and beat the girl with it. "Don't be foolish, girl. What concern would the Professor have with... whatever _your_ business may be?"

"For crying out loud, you guys are all so snotty around here! But this guy's not above teaching people. I heard him say it myself. Now I'm not here looking for handouts, I'm trying to practically _give_ handouts, and if my money's not good enough, I'll just go somewhere else!"

"Good enough for what?" The Professor was too engrossed in the technological confusion of the camera's labels to pay attention to her.

"Good enough for _you_!" she declared, with another toss of her head.

The Professor paused in his search for the record button, pulled himself to his full height, and gave her a look of fury, confusion, surprise, and shock.

The girl's smile became positively feline. "Yeah, now you know, don'tcha, buddy? I'm here to ask you about training lessons, and to give you cold, hard cash for 'em."

In the silence that followed, the girl tapped her foot impatiently, while the Professor's expression slowly became the typical smirk. "Well!" he finally responded. "What do you expect me to say?"

She blinked but rallied quickly. "Well, if you'd been raised to have any manners, you'd ask me to sit down. Come _on_, pal, I'm trying to give you some business. The least you could do is act professional."

_Quite right!_ Spencer mentally cheered. Not only was the girl cute, she could also probably set the Professor in his place. He _should_ behave as a gentleman would; you'd think an Englishman would know that.

Of course, the academic's next words reminded Spencer that Professor Oak was not your average English gentleman. "What do you think, Spencer? Shall we ask the baggage to sit down, or shall we toss her out the window?"

The girl cringed and stepped back, as she should--after all, Doctor Oak was probably perfectly capable of doing such a thing. "Hey! I'm not a suitcase, I'm a human being! And because I'm a human being, you can't just throw me out a window! Not when I've done my part and offered to pay you like any other human being would!"

Spencer decided to show the girl that not all Pokemon researchers were rude bastards. "How may Doctor Oak and I help you, young lady?"

He could feel the Professor's glare burning into his back. However, whatever inevitable punishments he could devise were worth it all for the shy smile she gave him at first, then the bright grin as she recognized him. "Well, mister, after hearing him talk about Pokemon training the other night, and after seeing just how important it is to everybody around here, I started thinking." She paused. "I like my life as it is--growing flowers, selling them, and just living. But the bottom line is, around here that doesn't work. If I want people to take me seriously and _respect_ me around here, I've got to learn something about Pokemon and training and all that. Now the Professor there says he can teach me about them. I'm willing to learn something now, even if it is just the basics. I know what lessons for me ought to cost, and I'm ready to pay for them."

The little speech, so carefully rendered, so full of pragmatism beyond her years, placed Spencer firmly on the young woman's side. He was ready to kill, maim, cajole, anything to make the Professor take her on.

Doctor Oak, meanwhile, had begun pacing around the room. He paused near his desk, picked a piece of candy from a box, ate it slowly. Eventually he leaned against his desk, picked another piece from the box, and asked, "How much?"

"All _right_!" Her feline grin was back. "There ya go! See, I knew you wouldn't mind teaching me if you saw a chance to get some of that tip you left back."

The Professor pointed toward another chair. "Sit down," he ordered. Spencer wanted to kill him for his uncouth manners.

"Well, since you're offering--" she began.

"_Sit down_!"

Spencer and the girl both jumped at the roar.

Mrs. Pearce added to the commotion. "Sit down, girl. Do as you're told."

She seemed positively terrified. How unfair of them to intimidate the poor girl! Impulsively Spencer rose from his chair. "What's your name?" he asked.

When she spoke, her voice held a note of fear. "I'm Delia. Delia Ketchum."

He smiled, gallantly gestured toward the chair he'd vacated. "Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable, Miss Ketchum."

The smile he received was even prettier than Laurel's. _See, being a gentleman does have its perks._ "Thanks, mister, don't mind if I do." She sat down, daintily tucking one leg underneath her, letting the other leg swing idly.

The Professor rolled his eyes, but he took a seat behind his desk. After propping his feet up on the corner of the desk, and picking out another chocolate, he asked, "All right, how much do you propose to pay me for these lessons?"

She became all business then. "Okay. I've thought about this. I figure that most of the training expenses come from getting the critter itself, you know? But I don't want to _get_ one to keep. I just want to learn what they do and how they can be useful. Now, I think that since you're one of those bookworms, you can just show me what to read and explain all the stuff to me, and if I need to see how it works, we can use the Pokemon here. I don't think just explaining and letting me read will take lots of time, and I don't think it should cost a lot to do. So, I propose to have two one-hour lessons at fifteen pounds per hour--twice a week, or however you like. Comes to thirty pounds a week. Take it or leave it." She sat back in the chair, continued to swing her leg.

The Professor picked out another chocolate, bit into it, frowned, and tossed it into the wastebasket. He gazed at Spencer. "You know, Spencer, thirty pounds is a sizable portion of this ragged urchin's income. And she's describing a program that I've certainly done before."

_Oh, good, then he's going to take the offer._

"However."

Spencer did not like the tone of that "however."

"I am the Kenan Professor of Pokemonology at Celadon University and the Catalan Fellow for the University of Kanto at Viridian. I have won the prestigious Michaelson Award not once, but twice. People come from all over the world to read the very same course she's describing with me. And they _usually_ don't do it for less than three thousand pounds." Spencer gazed, openmouthed, as he tossed the now-empty box into the wastebasket, opened a drawer on his desk, and pulled out another box wrapped in gold paper.

Delia had sprung from her chair to lean over the front of his desk. "_Three thousand pounds_? Where the hell do you expect me to get three thousand pounds?"

"Hold your tongue, you silly girl, I never said you needed--"

"I haven't _got_ three thousand pounds! I've barely got thirty!" She slammed a hand on his desk, then turned her head. From where he stood, Spencer saw that her big brown eyes were brighter than normal. Why, she was crying!

"Don't cry, girl, and sit down," Mrs. Pearce snapped. "Nobody's going to touch your money."

Doctor Oak rose from his desk. "Somebody's going to touch you with a broomstick if you don't stop that snivelling. _Sit down_." As she slowly sank back into the chair, he pulled a bright red handkerchief from his pocket.

"Sheesh," Delia sniffled. "You yell at me like you're my dad or something."

"If I decide to teach you, I'll be worse than _three_ fathers to you." He thrust the handkerchief at her. "Here."

"I don't want your charity." A weak but still incredibly defiant voice.

"Nonsense, you stupid twit. Take it." Under the Professor's intense glare, the girl obeyed. "If you're going to be a trainer worth anything, you mustn't go to pieces over every mishap. You must face every problem with rational action, not hysterics. Remember that."

He sounded different... almost sympathetic. It was so unlike anything Spencer had heard from him in the past thirty-six hours that Spencer was shocked into stillness. In that stillness, Spencer's analytic side sprang to life. _All right. He sounds somewhat willing to teach her right now. We just have to give him a reason to want to do it. No... we have to make it seem as if he can't do it..._

Suddenly, the plan became crystal clear. Spencer smiled, cleared his throat. "Professor?"

"What?"

"Do you remember your boast the other night? That you could pass this young lady off as a highly experienced trainer in six months? If you really could do such a thing, why, you'd be the world's greatest Pokemon instructor. But... no, no. You can't possibly be the world's greatest. Never mind."

"You insufferable git! I _am_ the world's greatest Pokemon instructor!"

_Now he's falling for it!_ "All right. If you really are, then you should be able to pass her off as an experienced trainer in the Trainers' Invitational." He paused, then added with a wink at Delia, "I'll bet you all the expenses of the experiment that you can't do it. Including the lessons."

The Professor frowned thoughtfully; Delia rewarded him with another brilliant smile and a "Wow, thanks a lot, mister!"; Spencer merely crossed his arms, smirked, and basked in the glow of her praise.

* * *

This was intriguing. Quite a challenge, indeed.

Samuel had been vaguely interested in the girl from the moment she'd walked into the room. He was surprised the silly little thing could remember who and where he was. He'd been slightly intrigued when he'd heard her motivations for wanting to learn. So she _had_ realized just how vital Pokemon were--and how _stupid_ she'd been for not learning about them before. But he'd been downright impressed with the plan of study she'd laid out. Not necessarily a training track... more of a "how can I make them useful for _my_ purposes" track. Not bad for an ignorant girl.

He might have done it of his own free will. It seemed quite an amusing way to make thirty pounds a week (if she wanted to pay him to do it, he'd not complain). Another perk: he would only have to deal with her twice a week for one hour, unlike the usual five times a week for three hours a day. The less he had to deal with any annoying trainer, the more tolerable it was.

The mad Etonian boy had thrown a wrench into the plan, however.

Samuel remembered his boast well: _I'd wager that I can even pass her off as... as a Gym Leader, or at least a highly experienced and respected trainer._ And he knew he could do it, if presented with the chance. Damned if the boy hadn't dropped the chance in his lap.

And what a challenge, too! The girl knew nothing. _Nothing._ Yet Spencer had dared him to make this girl a trainer suitable for the Invitational in October. It would be like trying to teach a newborn a Shakespeare soliloquy.

He rubbed his chin for a moment. "It's almost irresistible," he said thoughtfully. "She's so _deliciously_ low. So _horribly_ ignorant..."

"Hey!" The chit lifted her face from his handkerchief and scowled. "I tried to read about Pokemon before I came! Really I did! But it all looked like Greek to me."

Teach this foolish girl all the knowledge of a Gym Leader in only six months? Pass her off as an experienced trainer, experienced enough to compete against others with more years behind them? Make her a worthy opponent in the fiercest exhibition competition in the land?

It was devilishly difficult. Most would say that it was damn near impossible. Samuel knew what he must do.

"I'll take it!" he cried, grabbing a handful of papers from his desk and tossing them into the air. "I'll take it! I'll make a Pokemon Master out of this ignorant guttersnipe!"

Nearly impossible causes were his favorite kind, after all.

"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not a guttersnipe!"

But the Muse was pouring the plans for the experiment into his head, so he had no time for her jabber. "We'll start today! Right now! This very moment! We have enough room around here--she can stay here! Better for her to stay here, so she can be fully immersed in the culture! And she won't pick up any nasty habits from those lazy bastard trainers around her! That sounds like a lovely plan, doesn't it, Mrs. Pearce?"

The woman was completely flummoxed. "I suppose so, sir, but--"

"Wait a minute! You want me to come _live_ here? With _you_?"

"Of course it's a marvelous plan. Quite right. Mrs. Pearce, take the girl upstairs and show her around her new home. Show her the grounds, the rest of the lab, the library, the upstairs... I suppose you can show her my room and Spencer's room, she'll probably spend a lot of time there--"

The girl leapt from the chair again. "What the hell is wrong with you? You expect me to stay here by myself with two grown men? No, thank you! I'm a good girl, and I know when I'm going to be stuck in a bad situation!"

"No, no, we want none of your Yank prudery here. You've got to learn to think like a trainer. Trainers will take any room and board that's free to them. Take her away, Mrs. Pearce, and if she gives you any trouble, wallop her." He swung his arm to emphasize his point, then reached for the chocolates.

"_Oh_! Threatening me, whipping me, putting me out here in orgies--no way! I'm gonna call the cops!"

"But where should I put her, sir? Master Charles and Miss Anne still use their rooms when they're here on holiday, and Mr. Hale is already in the guest suite!"

That was the problem with women. They were always bothering him with inane questions and threats. "How the devil should I know? Put her... put her in Audrey's rooms. Yes, that's quite good, right next to mine so I can monitor her progress every hour of the day."

Mrs. Pearce looked like a bulbous pidgey when she stared at him like that. It was most unbecoming.

"Next thing you know, you'll want to chain me to a bed!" the girl cried.

Samuel gazed at her for a moment. He'd never tried teaching someone like that before. "That's not a bad idea. I'll think about it. Now, if you're to train, you'll need a monster of some sort..."

A moment of silence, and good thing, because it would take him a while to think of a suitable monster for the girl.

"Professor," Spencer began, "be reasonable--"

Mrs. Pearce cut him off. "Yes, you must be reasonable, Professor, really you must! You can't just walk over everyone!"

The girl just gave him a wild-eyed, frightened stare.

Was he _really_ walking over everyone? Nonsense. "I, walk over everyone? My dear Mrs. Pearce, my dear Spencer, even you, my dear guttersnipe--"

The girl clapped a hand to her forehead and sank back into the chair without a word.

"--I never intended to walk over anyone. I am merely proposing that we help the poor girl. She came to us for training lessons. Should we not give them to her in the most convenient and beneficial manner possible? If that involves keeping her here, under our watchful, protective eyes, then so be it."

"But, but, sir," Mrs. Pearce stammered, "letting a complete stranger into the house... we don't know anything about her! Does she have parents? Heaven forbid, does she have a husband?"

The girl answered that query by sticking her tongue out and blowing a huge raspberry.

Samuel pointed to her. "You see, Mrs. Pearce? As the girl very properly says, _pppppbbbbbbbbttt_." Spencer chuckled at that, and he couldn't help grinning.

"Come _on_, lady. My mom's dead, and my dad's always out on the road, so I may as well not have parents. And nobody'd want to marry somebody like me."

Well, of course they wouldn't, not in her present state. After he was finished with her... "By George... Delia, is it? By George, Delia, when I'm done with you, the streets will be filled with men throwing themselves at your feet. Everyone in Kanto will willingly shoot themselves for a moment with you."

Delia blinked. Then she sprang from the chair again and hurried towards the French doors in the rear of the lab. "Uh-_uh_, no way, buddy! I don't want to know whatever it is you've got to teach me! This guy's off his rocker, he's frickin' hoopie! What the hell does he want to teach people such dangerous stuff for..."

Why, that presumptuous insect! He raced after her and snatched his handkerchief from her hands. "So you think I'm mad, hey? Very well, Mrs. Pearce, don't show this intolerable wench around, throw her out!" And he went back to his box of chocolates, knowing that she would turn around and beg soon.

"I won't allow it, Professor! Go home to your family, girl."

"I just told you, I haven't got anybody at home!"

"Exactly!" Samuel added around a mouthful of cream. "Then what's all the fuss about? She doesn't belong to anyone. She's no use to anyone except me. So, for heaven's sake, _take her around the house_."

"But sir... what about her personal effects? What about her clothes? Who will be paying whom for what? Think the plan through, Professor!"

"Personal effects? Clothes?" He hadn't thought of that. He filed the problem away for future concern; after all, he still had the question of the proper monster for the girl. "Bloody hell, Mrs. Pearce, I don't know. Anything she has can't be worth very much... and if her clothes look anything like this rag she's wearing, she'll do better without them."

"_Hey_! You've got a lot of nerve, pal! My clothes look just fine! And my stuff may not be worth much, but it's mine!" She looked towards Spencer. "Please, mister, you're a gentleman, please don't let him insult me that way!"

Ha. Turning to the young man for sympathy. But it worked, for Spencer answered, "I quite agree with Delia, Professor, you shouldn't speak ill of her. Don't you think you're hurting the girl's feelings?"

"Rubbish, Spencer. I don't believe she has any feelings that we need to worry about. Have you, Delia?"

"Why, I've got feelings just like any other human being!"

"Professor," Mrs. Pearce interrupted, "what about after the experiment? Would you feel comfortable turning the poor girl loose on her own after spending six months with all of us?"

"Hasn't she survived the streets of Viridian without us? Answer me that, Mrs. Pearce."

Ha! She looked flummoxed again. "Well, I... that is... that's her own business, not yours, Professor. You weren't responsible for her then."

"So when I'm done with her, we'll throw her back into Viridian's streets and let her be responsible for herself again. Then we won't have to worry about it. That's all right, isn't it?" He chuckled a bit as he reached for the chocolate box, pleased to see that the whole experiment could be easily resolved at its conclusion.

Meanwhile, the girl--Delia, he probably should call her that instead--was giving him a hateful stare, full of immense fury. "What--you selfish--you've got the worst heart I've ever seen, you selfish bastard! You don't care what happens to anyone except yourself!" She stormed toward the staircase. "I've had enough of your insults and enough of your craziness. I'm outta here!"

_You mean she's still going to leave?_ Oh, no. Not _his_ project. What could he possibly do to keep her here?

Samuel gazed at the box of chocolate in his hand. _Hmm. If it worked for Audrey..._

He cut off Delia's dash for the door. "All right, then, but before you go--" And he carefully waved the box under her nose. "Have some chocolate, Delia."

* * *

Okay. _This_ guy was just a lowdown, dirty bastard. She wanted to knock him into next week!

After all the insults he'd thrown at her, after all his bullying, after his blatant disregard for her feelings, after his weird plot to chain her to a bed for whatever the hell reason, he had the nerve to try and lure her with her one fatal weakness: _chocolate_. And he had pulled out all the stops to get her to take it: fake politeness, a voice dripping with honey, and a hand that was holding the box so close that she could taste it.

Well, she'd show him. She wouldn't fall for that. No way.

Delia glanced down at the box. Gorgeous truffles, lathered in rich chocolate, all surrounded with a gold-wrapped box. She _knew_ that packaging--she _knew_ those truffles--

_Oh, my God, it's _Godiva_!!!_

No, Delia, ya gotta fight this. Remember, this is a wicked sick guy. He might have put some kinda poison in them.

"Not a chance, Doc," she gasped, trying not to look at the tempting treats. "For all I know, you might've drugged 'em. I wouldn't put it past you..."

"Then let's make it a pledge of good faith." He picked one from the box, placed the box on a nearby bookshelf, and broke the truffle into two gooey parts. "I'll eat one half--" Shoving half into his mouth. "And you eat the other half." Before she could respond, he popped the other half into her mouth.

_Why, that dirty old... Oh, God, cream, chocolate... heaven!_

"I practically live off these," she heard him say. "I have so many boxes of them... boxes and boxes. If you stay here and let me teach you, you can have barrels of them all to yourself..."

_I would be really stupid to leave this place... the man has Godiva chocolate..._ Of course, she couldn't let him know just how much she liked them. "Oh, they're all right. I don't really like chocolate. I just ate it because you practically shoved it in my mouth--ack! Hey, wait a minute! What're you tryin' to do, break my arm?"

He had paid no attention to her. Instead, he'd grabbed her arm and started dragging her up the staircase. "Think of it, Delia. What a wonderful life here... chocolate, excellent living quarters, lots of open space, all sorts of lovely things to see and learn and do, and the company of two intelligent men..."

"Hold on, Doc!" Delia snatched her arm away, ignoring the throbbing pains. Yeah, despite the fact that the guy in charge was insane, the place as he described it sounded awesome. But she wouldn't let his descriptions and promises lure her into something bad, like orgies with him and the younger guy. "I'm sure your place is a thousand times better than my shack in the city, and I'm sure it's got a lot more perks. But I'm a good girl, and I won't be roped in by promises of learning things only to end up as some kind of... well, you know," she hastily finished, unable to think of a nice way to say _hooker_. "What's my purpose for staying here to learn? What _is_ your plan for me?"

Her protector hurried over to the rail. "I agree with Delia, Professor. If she's going to put herself in our hands for six months, I think we had better tell her exactly what our plans for her are."

The old guy nodded slowly. "Quite right." He folded his hands behind his back, stood up straight, and sneered down at her from two stairs above her. Then he cleared his throat and began. Delia became so hopelessly confused by his words that she didn't notice him edging toward her and herself edging away

"Delia. You are to stay here for the next six months, intensively learning the art of Pokemon training, as countless others in Kanto have done before you. If you're good and do whatever you're told, you shall sleep in a beautiful bedroom, have all the food you could possibly eat, lots of pocket money to do whatever you like, and trays of chocolates every day. However, if you are naughty and idle, you shall sleep out in the dung heap with the Caterpies and the Weedles, and I shall order Mrs. Pearce to hang you from one of the windmill's arms. At the end of six months, we shall carry you out to Viridian City to see if you have learned everything we have taught you. If the Pokemon League finds out that you aren't a real trainer, they shall take you out to Cinnabar Island and push you into an active volcano as a warning to other presumptuous Yanks. But if you are not found out, I shall personally give you a reward of... three thousand pounds to assist you in your new life, whether it is a life devoted to Pokemon or pansies. If you accept this wonderful offer, you will be blessed among women, and God shall come down from Heaven to sing hosannas for you. However, if you refuse this generous offer, you will be the most naughty, ungrateful, wicked girl in Christendom, and the angels, from the Archangel Gabriel to the smallest cherubim, will weep _tears of blood_ for you."

Delia blinked. The Professor's face was about two inches from hers, while she had backed down the staircase and gotten smushed against the bookshelf. She imagined herself getting away from him by disappearing through the books.

He turned his face toward her protector. "Now, are you satisfied, Spencer?"

"Well, sir," the man said hesitantly, "I don't think I would have described it quite like that--"

"Could I have put it more plainly or fairly, Mrs. Pearce?"

The old woman sighed and grabbed Delia's arm. "Come with me, Delia," as she practically pulled her up the stairs.

Who did these people think they were? Dragging her around, ordering her around, threating to push her into volcanoes and hang her from windmills... "You're nothing but a big bully, that's all!" she yelled over her shoulder. "That's all all of you are, just big bullies picking on a little girl! Well, I'll show you! I won't let you people push _me_ around and hang _me_ off stuff! I'll leave when I feel like it! You harm one hair on my head and I'm gone--"

"Oh, don't answer back, girl," the old woman snapped as they went.

Her protector looked absolutely horrified, but that bastard was _smirking_ at her! "Oh, yes," he said, "I'll make a Master of that barbarous wretch, Spencer."

That selfish bully needed a good kick in the pants! Since Delia couldn't reach him, she settled for more angry words. "If I'd known how you really are, I never would've come! I don't know how you people make your women act around here, but I can tell you that in America women are independent and free thinkers and can do whatever they like! You won't force _me_ to stay if I don't want to! And what about my stuff?!?"

The old lady closed the door to the lab's entrance behind them, only to open it seconds later when she heard a shout: "_Mrs. Pearce_!"

"Yes, Professor?"

"See if you can find that Bulbasaur I received from the Humane Society. I think that one will be perfect for our flower wench: they can both grow and learn together."

"Yes, sir." She closed the door again, then turned to Delia. "All right, then. Here you are at the Pallet Town Pokemon Preserve. I am Mrs. Pearce, the housekeeper. I do everything around here that the Professor can't be bothered to do, such as cook and clean. The young man is the Professor's research assistant, Spencer Hale. I assume you are well acquainted with the Professor by now. I suppose I should show you around the lower levels of the house on the way to the grounds."

The house was huge: a big kitchen, a dining room, a den, a massive library (with two levels and a spiral staircase!), an art room, a music room. Each area was decorated with all sorts of antiques and paintings and pictures, and every decoration seemed elegant and just right for the room. Except for the animals hanging out on chairs, walking through the hallways, snoozing in the light patches beneath the windows, the house could have easily been a museum.

One portrait in the library caught Delia's eye: a younger Professor with a woman. He didn't have a smirk: he looked happy. And the woman was just beautiful: long auburn-brown hair, big brown eyes, a gorgeous smile, and an hourglass figure. Despite her model looks, she looked so friendly and natural that Delia liked her anyway. "Who's that?" she asked.

"That's the Professor and his wife, Audrey. She passed on two years ago. She was such a sweet woman."

"She's really pretty... wait, his _wife_? You mean somebody actually fell in love with and married _him_?"

"Yes, and they also had children. Is that so surprising?"

"Well," Delia answered, "if someone can love a guy like _that_, then there's definitely someone out there for me." Funny; Mrs. Pearce didn't seem so bad when she laughed.

The view from the back door looked like a painting too--mountains in the background, a large, clear lake, huge green fields as far as she could see. "This is the Preserve proper, where the Pokemon should live, though as you can see sometimes they get into the house. Come along, I'll show you each section."

Delia saw all kinds of creatures during their walk, and to her surprise, a lot of them looked normal. She saw some sheep, some pink cows, bigger versions of sparrows and pigeons, a larger than normal butterfly, fish and seahorses and even something that looked like a seal or a manatee. Some of them were really cute too: a teddy bear, a round pink ball with big eyes, the pretty little fox that rubbed against her leg. "They're not so bad, are they?" Mrs. Pearce asked, and Delia had to agree at first.

Some of the stuff she saw was just _weird_. A bunch of eggs? No, something called an... Execute? Big walking trees with three heads? No, an Executor or something like that, and the eggs would grow up... no, evolve to be that. A _unicorn_ with fire coming out of its neck? No, a Rapidash, no horn. She mistook a Jinky (she thought that's what Mrs. Pearce said) for a little old woman.

A lot of the stuff she saw scared her to death. Tall ones with four arms and muscles like bodybuilders. Big things that looked like massive worms but were made entirely out of rock, and other _talking boulders_ nearby. Big, colorful bugs that resembled spiders and caterpillars--but others that had boxing gloves and blades for arms. A real, live _fire-breathing dragon_ that swooped right over their heads. And the great big sea monster that growled at them as they went past. _These_ guys were more than just house pets--they were dangerous and scary.

_Maybe I should just get out of here_, Delia told herself. _I'm too little to control big, bad critters. Plus, I could get killed by one of these monsters, and none of these people would care._

"So, you grow flowers, do you? I've saved the garden for last. I think you'll like it."

"The garden" turned out to be a large, showy affair too, an English-style garden that was... _beautiful_. It was slightly overrun with weeds, but the flowers seemed to flourish anyway. Delia gazed, open-mouthed, at all the vegetation: roses and crysanthemums, pansies and posies, ivies and bushes, and all sorts of vegetables. _Imagine what I could do with all this!_

"It's Audrey's garden," Mrs. Pearce explained. "She arranged it and supervised it personally. Much prettier and more growth when she tended it. I've tried to do what I can, but I haven't a green thumb at all. And the Pokemon are starting to get into it, too."

But what wonderful Pokemon! Walking sunflowers, weeds that could talk... _dancing_ flowers, wearing petal dresses. And all of them smiled at her, waved at her, came up to her to dance and chatter and be petted. She knelt to greet them, to let them climb all over her.

"If I stay here, can I... do you think I could take care of the garden?"

Delia had said it without thinking. Almost as soon as she heard the words, she inwardly cringed, expecting the older woman to yell at her. But Mrs. Pearce only smiled and said, "I don't see why not. Certainly you'll know more about it than the rest of us."

Just then they heard a slight rustling in the rhododendrons. A few seconds later, a very small creature, no larger than a kitten, wriggled out of the tangled roots. Blue, with big red eyes and a big bulb growing out of its back, with a shape like a rhinoceros? No... like some dinosaur she'd seen in a book long ago, whose name she couldn't remember.

"Ah, there you are, little one." Mrs. Pearce walked to the monster, knelt, and scooped it up in her arms. "How convenient. You're here in time to meet your new owner."

"What _is_ it?"

"This is a Bulbasaur. It's a grass and poison type. She's very young."

"Oh. It's just a baby, then. Wow, these things are really tiny when they're babies."

"Well, this one is smaller than usual. She was the runt of her litter. Her previous owner dropped her off at the Humane Society. No one would take her, and they were about to put her under. Thank goodness the Professor saw her the day before. He brought her home so she could live in a lovely place... or perhaps be adopted by another trainer. Like you."

"Oh... good thing he saved her... wait a minute. You mean it--I mean, she's mine?"

"That's right. She'll be your first Pokemon to train. Would you like to hold her?"

"Oh... wow... I... okay." She held out her arms, and Mrs. Pearce carefully deposited the wriggling animal into them. It shuffled, wriggled, eventually nestled against Delia's chest. "Hey there, um, little Bulbasaur," she began, not quite sure what to say or do to it--her.

The Bulbasaur sniffed her chin for a moment, then gave her a gentle lick. "Bulba," she announced before snuggling into the crook of her elbow and falling into a light doze. _Awww! How sweet! It's a sweet little baby..._

_Aw, man. This wasn't supposed to happen._ She usually hated schlocky stuff like this in the movies. Like a boy and his dog. Boy finds stray puppy, finds it too endearing to leave, runs around and has adventures with cutely named puppy. Well... hell. The Bulbasaur was a cute little critter. And, like Delia, no one seemed to be too fond of her just because she was different. _We'll show them, won't we, kiddo? Nobody's going to write us off that easily._

"Looks like it's you and me in this together, kiddo," she murmured. "No, I can't call you kiddo all the time. You've got to have a name. You've got flowers on your back. Flower? Petal? Gardenia? No. You came out of the rhododendrons... How about Rhoda?"

The Bulbasaur squirmed in agreement, and Delia smiled. She stood up, gazed at the garden, the house, Rhoda, thought of the boxes of _Godiva_ chocolate. Everything she'd ever wanted, right here, and all she had to do was learn about the critters. What a wicked lucky break...

"Come along, and I'll show you your room," Mrs. Pearce said, and they headed back to the house to see the rooms upstairs.

_Wow_. Delia gasped when she saw the bedroom: French provincial furiniture, a chandelier, a huge bed, wall to wall carpeting... not a single crack in the ceiling. She carefully placed Rhoda on the bed, then raced around the room to try each chair, look at every picture, check every drawer. "Wicked frickin' pissa," she whispered. "I think this room is too good for me. I'm afraid I'll break something." She stretched out on the carpet, determined to see just how soft it was.

"Oh, I'd not worry about breaking anything, my girl. Though I do hope I got all the Pokemon out earlier..."

Delia lifted the bedskirt to see how much space was under the bed. Then she saw something... lots of somethings... moving under the bed. She narrowed her eyes... and came face to face with the things she hated most.

_Oh, my God, I knew it, I knew this place was too good to be true..._

She jumped up and ran to the other side of the room, because she had to get the hell away from them. _Now_.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"Rats," Delia hissed, clutching the wall. "P-p-purple rats. Under the bed. Get them out of here. Get _me_ out of here. _Now_."

"Oh, dear. They did come back, the naughty things. Don't worry, they're only Rattata, they're perfectly safe--"

But they were coming out now, tons and tons of them (okay, more like ten, but that was still too many). And they were all looking at her. Delia could not breathe. _No, stay away from me, stay back there or I'll scream--_

To her horror, an enormous brown rat toddled out. It blinked, then showed its huge rat teeth at her. "Raticate!" it yelled, then started running toward her. Inspired by their leader, the purple rats moved toward her too.

Delia screamed.

* * *

Samuel had almost come to a theory on the restorative properties of chocolate truffles when the feminine yells from upstairs broke his concentration.

"_Help! Someone help! This goddamn rat is trying to eat me! Oh, my God, get it off me! Help!_"

"Nonsense, girl! Calm down! They're just saying hello!"

"_I don't give a shit--I hate rats! Get them away from me! What kind of a hellhole is this?!_"

Bloody hell. Why did women always have to break his concentration? Even Audrey had done so on occasion at first, but eventually, with the proper guidance, she had learned not to do it. However, no other woman had seemed willing or able to learn the lesson. Clearly this one, this Delia Ketchum the Yankee guttersnipe, would be just like the others. Ah, well, at least that made her easy to ignore until he absolutely had to deal with her. So he ignored her screams.

Spencer had instantly winced at her pitiful wailing, however. "I hope she's okay up there."

"Oh, dash the chit," he responded, not even bothering to look up from his notes. "She'll be tolerably good fun once she's gotten used to us and everything around here."

Now what was the boy staring at him for? What had he said?

But the impudent fop had walked over to his desk and looked him right in the eye. "Professor. Forgive the bluntness, but... well, now that I've gotten into all this, I feel completely responsible for Delia. I hope... I hope you won't take advantage of her in any of the ways she, ah, mentioned."

What? Did Spencer actually think he was going to sleep with the girl or some other nonsense? "_That_ thing? Sacred, I assure you."

"Really, Professor, I'm being completely serious. Are you..." The young man was blushing now. "Are you an honorable man when it comes to dealing with women?"

Most irritating. Still, Samuel knew he wouldn't have any peace until he answered the boy. "Spencer, have you ever met a man who has behaved honorably toward a woman?"

"What? Yes, of course. I happen to be one."

He propped his feet up on the desk again. "Well, I haven't, because I happen not to be one. Most of the time, I am an honorable and decent man. However, when I get close to a woman, I find that my honor disappears, and I become a heartless and cruel bastard. It's not completely my own fault. Most of the women I've known have driven me fair mad with their silly ways."

"What do you mean?"

Aha! He felt his lecturing spirit coming upon him. "Let me give you examples of the women currently in my life. My mother is a mad old wench who delights in screaming at me for silly things, such as not sitting up straight and grinding my teeth and speaking my mind in polite company. My sister is a silly old bat who delights in bossing me around, not because she has any more sense than I, but simply because she had the unfortunate blessing of being born first. My daughter is a dunderhead who has fits of fatherly love when she needs money for the newest fashion or the most enchanting little trinket that she absolutely must have. My granddaughter is only three years old, but I can already see from the way she knows how to charm me into buying her things that she's going to be as manipulative and silly as the rest of her sex. I pay Mrs. Pearce to nag and annoy me, but damned if she isn't good at it. From these examples, I think the answer is evident. Women are foolish and conniving and selfish and shallow, and when they are around me, _I_ become all of those things too. So, here I am, a confirmed old celibate widower, and likely to remain so."

Spencer leaned on the desk, head resting in his hands. "If all women are so terrible, how did you manage to get married?"

"To answer that, let me tell you what I look for in a perfect woman. I freely admit it, she must be pleasing to look at, or I should be quite ashamed to be seen with her. Next, she must have all the social graces and elegant tastes of a well-bred lady, or I would never take her anywhere. She must be intelligent and have some sort of talent, or we'll never have anything to talk about. She should be clever and quick-witted, or she'll bore me. She should be independent, or she'll get on my nerves. She should feel passion, or she'll chill me. Most importantly, she should be plain-speaking to a fault, or she'll never tolerate me. My Audrey was all those things to me, and many more, and for that I loved her and married her. She's gone now, God bless her, and I'm fairly certain that there will never be another woman like her."

At Spencer's nod, Samuel smirked. "Therefore, my boy, you needn't worry about my behavior toward our fair trainer upstairs. I won't let any woman who doesn't have every trait I've listed into my personal life. Though I should be quite worried about _your_ intentions."

"_Mine_? I'll have you know that I'm a very happily engaged man, sir! I would never dream of being with another woman!"

Ha. That's what they all said--until the pretty faces, beguiling smiles, and sweet words drew them in. "We shall see. In the meantime," he continued, returning to his notes, "if we have exhausted all talk of our love affairs, we should get back to work. You and I have a lot to do, after all."

The snotty boy sighed. "Yes, sir. Where should I start?"

"First, look into having Delia's items brought from her house. By the time that's arranged, I'll have my reading lists for both of you ready, and you can run up to the library and begin pulling all the books from the shelves. Then I should be ready to discuss Beech's _Compendium 1_ with you over tea. I hope you've read it thoroughly, for after that we'll immediately turn to _Compendium 2_, which you should have read for tomorrow. _Next_, we'll have to go down and look after the Pokemon. After dinner, we'll discuss some strategies for teaching our guttersnipe..."

Now why was the senseless git banging his head against his desk? Sometimes men were as foolish and selfish as women. _He_ didn't think he was making incredible demands upon the boy. 

Samuel shook his head and reached for another chocolate before returning to his booklist.


	5. Act 1, Scene 4: The Going Price for a Da...

Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer 1.4 

**A Firm Avowal of the Lack of Authorial Rights**: The Author of this Delightful and Charming Work wishes that her faithful Readers will acknowledge her Lack of Ownership of Anything contained within this work of Fiction. The Characters, which she has seen fit to adopt to this tale, belong to Mister Tajiri and the Corporations who have paid him well to use them. The Story, which she has seen fit to use in her fashion, is based upon the play _Pygmalion_, by the Delightful Mister George Bernard Shaw, and the musical _My Fair Lady_, by Messrs. Lerner and Loewe. Please, gentle Holders of Copyright, do not sue the fair Author, as she is forced to live in Abject Poverty.

**Gentle Reader**: The Author continues to praise and bless her faithful Reviewers, all of whom she loves very much. She adores knowing that you enjoy her silly Tale; she would like you to know that she is enjoying writing it as much as you seem to be adoring it, dear Readers. The Author has had quite a devilish Problem writing this portion--she frequently skips over the portions of the source text/ film involving Mr. Doolittle. Still, since Drake is present, we must send him off to his Destiny. Next time, we shall view the infamous "training lessons" that our dear "Higgins" is inflicting upon our "Eliza," so the Author hopes that you shall stay tuned. As always, the Author salutes the worthy institution known as the Eldershipping Brigade. This tale continues to be for Mademoiselle Harrington, who is never allowed to flame herself, from her most obliged and humble Servant, the Author. Please do send the Author your comments on this odd piece of Fiction.

  


**Pygmalion, or My Fair Trainer**

_Being a Romance by Latonya Wright_

**Act 1, Scene 4**: _The Going Price for a Daughter_

_Viridian City, May 1987_

Drake Ketchum gazed at the underside of the park bench and wondered how the hell he had gotten here.

Perhaps piecing together the events of the last forty-eight hours would be easier if he didn't have a splitting headache. How had that happened? Oh, yeah. Somewhere between Donnegan's and the Cock and Thistle he'd forgotten to drink some water, and had a few too many Flamethrowers after that. The way these bartenders mixed Flamethrowers around here, man... after _one_ you'd forget your name, after _two_ you'd forget your planet... he'd had like ten or something...

Nah. Wait a minute, wait a minute. He could do this. He could put together the previous thirty-six hours. He closed his eyes to shut out the rising sun's light and began.

Okay. He and Delia had parted ways at the Hawkins Road metro stop yesterday morning. He was going off to the Gym, and she was going off to see Professor Oak.

The Viridian Gym had been wicked annoying. He'd be walking somewhere one minute, step on the wrong square, and end up in a whole weird area. Still, he'd managed to take down about three of the Junior Trainers before getting to Lydia. He'd managed to heal the proper Pokemon accordingly. 'Course, by the time he got to Lydia, she hadn't seemed like much of a fight at all. She'd kinda squinted at his monsters, muttered something about "nothing rare and valuable," and taken a pretty easy and quick ass-whooping. She'd kinda sneered at him as she dropped the last Badge and his winnings check in his hand, but he didn't care.

All right. After that, to the bank for a minute, and then off to St. George's for a beer and a round or two on him for everybody, 'cause he had to celebrate his victory and completion of the Indigo League Gyms.

Went home for a minute to get the kid and take her out for some cheap eats. She wasn't home yet, so he went up the street to Archie's Place for another beer and another round. Got into a conversation about how he was gonna take on the Elite Four next.

Went home again. Kid still wasn't there, so he just went out to roam the streets 'cause he knew she was fine.

At some point the Flamethrowers happened. Met a girl. Done with her half an hour later.

Got into another weird conversation about how he should go to the Orange Islands. Enough Flamethrowers consumed to make him think this was a good idea. Staggered home to tell kid, but she wasn't there. Staggered out to amuse himself until she came home.

More drinking and round-buying happened. Other weird conversations with chicks who thought his accent was wicked cute. Then something else happened, and here he was in the park.

...wait a minute. Where the hell was his kid?

Aw, forget it. She was probably out in the Theatre District selling her flowers. Frickin' good life that kid has.

...but she hadn't been home, and that wasn't like her. She wasn't in any trouble, was she? Had the Professor told her no or something and she'd done something crazy?

Aw, forget it. He'd find her after he had a little nap--

"Come along, Drake, my friend." An Officer Jenny was poking at his stomach with her club. "Go on home now. This is no place for a guy in your state."

"My state is the Minuteman state, and my kid ain't home," he mumbled. "Ran off with a Professor. It's her lucky break." Something like that.

"She's probably not enjoying running off with him, then, because she's probably out looking for you." Somehow this chick was pulling him to his feet. "Off you go. Go home and sleep it off."

"Sure thing, Jen. Say, you wouldn't--"

"Not a pound, Drake."

"Oh. Send the bill to the Viridian Gym, then." And he had staggered off, only to fall into the nearby fountain moments later. Thus, for the second time in as many days, he was soaking wet.

While he hated being wet, the cold water did bring him back to his senses. Clearly he had to find his kid. So, after a couple of seconds to wriggle the excess water off and to shake his thickened wallet dry, Drake started on his daughter-finding quest. Going to the most likely place made the most sense, so he headed towards the Theatre District.

No good. The peanut guy working next to her cart's usual location had shrugged his shoulders. "We haven't seen Delia in a day and a half. Not since the other afternoon. It's not like her not to be here--she never misses a day. She even came in when she had the flu."

Drake scratched his head. She was just supposed to go to Pallet Town and come right back. Where else could she have gone?

He checked the flower shops, the mall, the shops on Grafton Street where he knew she used to window shop. Nothing. It was like she had disappeared! By the time he'd not seen her at the grocery store off Silas Lane, he was praying that she was at home. (He was so worried that he resolved to give her the rest of his winnings no matter what--as long as she was safe and sound.)

As he wandered up to the shack on Silas Lane, he noticed that the front door was wide open. _What the hell?_

Two seconds later, a guy who looked like a moving man came out with a box full of stuff. Drake could see Delia's favorite quilt peeping over the top of the box.

Oh, _shit_! Either this guy had just killed his kid and was now stealing her stuff... or even worse, the house and everything in it was getting repossessed!

Drake raced to the guy, waving his wallet around. "Hey, hold on a minute, buddy, wait! Don't take the stuff, don't take the stuff! How much ya need to have us keep it? I got it, I got enough... or are you the rent guy?"

The man blinked. "Sorry?"

"The house, fella, the _house_! That's my house! I mean, it's my kid's house. And I know she doesn't have a lot of money, and I know she might be a little behind on the rent, but I got enough to cover it! How much ya need?" Because if she came home to find out that her stuff was gone and he hadn't done anything about it, his kid would _kick his ass_.

"Oh, I see. No, I'm not repossessing anything. I'm moving it. Apparently the owner's moved away, and I'm moving her things out to her new residence." He carried the box to his truck, then bounded back into the house.

Drake sighed in relief. She was apparently alive and well and doing all right. Really all right, if she could afford to move. He hated parting with his money, but he had promised to give it to her, so as soon as he found her--

--wait a minute. _Moving_? To where? Why? _How_?

Drake stopped the guy again on his second trip out. "Well, where's she moving to?"

"I'm afraid that's classified information, sir."

"Come _on_, buddy, I'm the kid's _dad_, ya gotta tell me where she is."

"I'd love to tell you, really, but we're honestly not supposed to say."

Drake took the box out of the guy's hands and carefully placed it on the ground, then grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him into the air with one hand. "Sorry," he said, grinning, "I didn't quite catch that address." Being a bully wasn't really one of his favorite things, but it usually worked.

"Pallet Town, Pallet Town! I'm taking the stuff out to Pallet Town, to Professor Oak's laboratory! Don't hurt me!"

What a chowdahead. Still, he'd gotten the information he wanted, so he carefully placed the guy back on the ground and straightened out his collar. "'Preciate it, pal, thanks a lot." The fella hadn't stood around long enough to hear his gratitude, though--he'd grabbed the box and headed for his truck as soon as Drake's hands left his shirt. Dumbass. Like _he_ could honestly hurt anybody.

--wait a minute. Moving out to Pallet Town, to the Professor's laboratory? He'd thought Delia was just going to go there for a visit and come back. Unless... unless the price of training lessons had "gone up" upon seeing just how good-looking his kid was...

Drake threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Oh, man, the kid's _priceless_! I knew she had a good career in front of her!" Because, honestly, that was an excellent deal: a nice place out in the country, a fella who was admittedly older but probably loaded, and a neat place where she could learn about all the Pokemon--all for the price of a half hour of nuisance! Free money and good living for little work! Talk about a lucky break! And _he_ could go off to the Orange Islands without worrying about her well-being! All _right_!

'Course, wonder if _he_ could get anything out of the deal... he'd just have to go out to Pallet Town and check it out, then come up with the proper plan.

(And another attack of parental feeling made him wonder if his kid was really in an okay place.)

That settled it. Drake headed for the Hawkins Road metro stop. By the time the train came, he'd come up with the perfect plan to get some extra cash.

* * *

_Pallet Town, May 1987_

In the Professor's library, Spencer was engrossed in the completely enthralling (read: _deadly dull_) second volume of Beech's _Compendium_. "Only eight more to go, but we can finish that in a week, hey?" the Professor had said cheerfully that morning. It had taken every ounce of willpower he had not to carry all ten volumes over to the fireplace and set them on fire.

Poor Delia was doing about as well. She had been stationed in the lab since six a.m., "to absorb more of the culture," as the Professor had put it. He wasn't quite sure what the Professor had her doing, but every so often, when the Professor went down to check on her, her voice would float upstairs.

"Number seventy-five... Grav--Graveler. Evolves naturally from number seventy-four, Geodude, at level twenty-five. A rock/ ground type..."

"Hold on, hold on, you brainless gibbon. Back here. You have misspelled Amnesia, Agility, and Charmeleon. Start over."

"What? But that's three words! You don't expect me to start over at number one for three words! Can't I just erase 'em?"

"Indeed I do mean for you to start over, and no, you cannot erase them. Start over. And for God's sake stop dotting your _i_s with those insipid hearts."

Then, after the brief exchange, the door would slam, and the Professor would appear in the library with another large volume in his hand. "Tell me Crepe Myrtle's significance."

"Introduced Grass types to the areas around Celadon in the ninth century," Spencer muttered, not looking up from the volume.

"And?"

Spencer blinked. "I..." He briefly considered making up an answer, just to save himself the embarrassment of (and possible fallout from) saying "I don't know." The Professor was smirking at him, however, so he knew he'd lost. "I'll keep reading, sir."

"That's a good git. Concede defeat early and do as I say, and we'll get along fine."

Spencer merely sighed and read on. _It's all worth it to help Delia, it's all worth it to help Delia..._

Moments later, Mrs. Pearce bustled into the room with the morning post in hand, a pillar of righteousness. "Professor Oak, we really must have a serious discussion. You know that I have never spoken a word against your methods of teaching."

"Then why should you start now?" the Professor asked as he climbed the stairs to the second level of the library.

His flippancy was lost on her. "Well, sir, I highly disapprove of the way you are handling Miss Delia. You simply cannot treat her as you treat the other trainers that pass through."

_Uh-oh._ Spencer had tried this conversation two hours ago. He had received a "shut up, you insufferable bastard" for his troubles. _This ought to be interesting. Maybe he'll listen to Mrs. Pearce, since he knows her._ He settled back and pretended to read.

"Why not?"

"Because she is a young woman. Certainly you may drill and order and curse and beat the young men who are here. They're used to being shoved around and barked at. However, you must not treat a girl that way. We are easily damaged--"

"Have I laid one hand upon the chit?"

"No, sir, but you have injured her in other ways. Take your language, for instance. I really must ask you to hold back your cursing. I am used to it, and Mr. Hale can probably tolerate it, but you absolutely should not curse in front of Miss Delia."

"I, curse? Nonsense. I am the sweetest-tongued man who ever lived."

Spencer raised his head to give him a "_you have_ got _to be kidding_" look. Mrs. Pearce was doing the same. "The sweetest-tongued man?" she repeated. "Quite a feat for a man who denounced 'the bloody coffee' at breakfast, 'the damned dirty carpet,' and... well, I can't bring myself to repeat your words for the Arbok in your shower this morning." At that, Spencer had to stifle the chuckle threatening to escape. Yes, he had heard those yells this morning too. He hadn't known words like _that_ existed.

Doctor Oak regarded them for a moment, then turned away. Spencer had _almost_ thought the older man was blushing. "Yes, well... the girl has her own unique brand of language. I heard it yesterday."

"I am well acquainted with that fact, sir. However, she's young and doesn't know any better. I must ask you to provide her with a better example."

"You're right, Mrs. Pearce. I shall watch what I say. She can't just use the most shocking word first--she must build up to it. Have you anything else to say?"

Spencer rolled his eyes and returned to his book.

"Yes, sir, I do. You are also drilling the girl much too hard. She has been here only twenty-four hours, but she has spent sixteen of them saying Pokemon names over and over. Over dinner, as her prayers, in the bath, over breakfast... it really is too much! When will it stop?"

"When she learns the names properly and in the correct order, of course. And then we'll do it all again with the attacks for each one. _Now_ is that all?"

The poor woman glanced towards heaven and sighed. _Oh, well. At least she tried and escaped without much injury_, Spencer thought. "No, sir. The morning post has arrived."

"Good. Pay the bills and say no to the invitations."

"Well, there's also another letter here from President Wallingford of the Orange League. Now that the Orange League Master is thinking of retirement, he wants your recommendations for a suitable replacement."

"_Again_? That stupid idiot. Throw it away."

"I'll do nothing of the sort, Professor. This is the third one he's written you. You should at least answer him."

"All right, Mrs. Pearce, all right," Doctor Oak answered wearily. "Just leave it on the desk. I'll get to it when I have time."

"Yes, sir." She practically hurled the letter on his desk. Before she left, she turned to Spencer and muttered, "I don't know how on earth you can abide him."

"Rubbish, Mrs. Pearce," the older man yelled back. "You love it here. Keeps you on your toes."

Spencer grinned. She had asked the million-dollar question, and he had to make up a suitably polite answer. Fortunately, that was his forte--giving gracefully accurate and polite responses. "At least it's never dull." She merely shook her head and left.

"Nagging old hag," the Professor muttered, but not without affection. "Watch, Spencer, she'll be back with some new complaint in five minutes."

Sure enough, she had returned five minutes later; but this time she was a bundle of nervous energy. "Oh, Professor, I _told_ you we would have some trouble from taking the girl in! There's a trainer here by the name of Drake Ketchum, and he says you have his daughter here!"

Spencer slammed the book shut and looked at her worriedly. "Oh, _dear_!" This man would probably end up killing them for having his daughter here!

Yet the Professor seemed very calm. "Well, send the blackguard in, Mrs. Pearce."

"All right, sir, but remember--I _told_ you so!"

As she scurried off, Spencer called up to the Professor, "This Drake Ketchum may not be a blackguard at all, Professor."

"Nonsense, Spencer. Of course the man's a blackguard."

He had to hand it to the Professor--at least he was consistent in his attitudes toward everyone. "Well, whether he is or not, I know we're going to have some trouble out of him." He tossed his hair over his shoulder and nodded.

"Oh, no. If someone's going to have any trouble today, he'll have it with me, not I with him."

Moments later, Mrs. Pearce appeared, followed by a large, incredibly muscular, scruffy, dirty man. His Pokemon League hat didn't keep his hair from falling into his eyes; his black shirt and blue jacket, slightly torn, barely covered his chest; his jeans were dirty and frayed around the ankles.

_What? _This_ was Delia's father?_ A big, filthy, scary guy like this made a sweet and cute little thing like her?

"Mr. Drake Ketchum, sir," she announced before fleeing in terror.

Mr. Ketchum stood in the doorway for a moment. Then he... well, growled. Right at him. "Hey, Professah Oak?"

Spencer began to calculate the best means of escape. He still had the height advantage, but _this_ guy had brawn.

"_Here_!"

Spencer and the man jumped. Mr. Ketchum glanced up to see Doctor Oak, gazing down at them from the balcony, the haughty aristocrat sneering at his lessers. But he wasn't intimidated. Instead, he grinned. "Oh, theah yare. Mornin', Doc. I'm heah to talk to ya about somethin' kinda important."

A smirk from the Professor. "Recently made trainer. Another American. Bostonian. Started out in Viridian, but doesn't stick to Ground types. Doesn't stick to any type. Very interesting. We don't see many jack-of-all-trades nowadays. Too bad I can't understand a word he's saying. What do you want, Ketchum?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Forgot I gotta enunciate around you fellas. Anyhow, I wanna talk to ya about my kid--"

"Of course you do. You're her father, aren't you? And you've come to collect her. Wonderful. I'm pleased to see that you are dedicated to your parental responsibilities. She's downstairs in the lab. Take her away." The older man immediately returned to his book.

"Huh?"

_My thoughts exactly! He actually wants Delia to go away with this beast after going through all those hysterics to make her stay? What's this all about?_

"_Take her away_. You don't expect me to take care of your daughter for you, do you?"

"Hey, hold on, Doc! Are ya bein' reasonable? Are ya bein' fair? I'm just askin' a simple question--she's my kid, and you got her, so where do I come in?"

_Wham!_ The Professor had snapped a huge book shut and fixed a glare of demonic proportions upon the trainer. "How _dare_ you come into my home and threaten to blackmail me!" He stormed down the staircase. "You sent her here on purpose, didn't you, you dissolute mongrel?"

Mr. Ketchum held his hands up in surrender. "Wait a minute, pal, don't trump up any charges on a guy--"

Doctor Oak was charging towards the videophone. "The police shall take care of any charges I place on you. This is clearly a plot--an extortion plot. I shall ring up the police straightaway, and they can deal with you and your bribery." He reached for the receiver.

"Now have I asked ya for a red cent?" The trainer turned to Spencer. "Come on, buddy, help me out here. Have I said one word about money to this guy?"

Before Spencer could formulate a proper answer, the Professor had come to face Mr. Ketchum, much as he had openly confronted Delia yesterday. "Then what else have you come for, Drake? Give us the truth: you sent Delia here on purpose."

"I swear on a stack of Bibles, Doc, I didn't do any such thing."

The Professor suddenly coughed, drew his handkerchief from his pocket, held it carefully over his nose, and headed away from the man. "Yes, well. How did you know she was here?"

"Well, if you'd quit goin' on about how I'm tryin' to steal money from ya, I'd _tell_ ya!" The man's smile became cunning. "Come _on_, don'tcha wanna hear how I found out about it? It's a wicked awesome story..."

Spencer chuckled. Yes, this was Delia's father, all right. His words and tones reminded him of Delia's yesterday.

The Professor smirked at him. "By George, Spencer, this man has quite a skill. Observe the way he attempts to draw us into _wanting_ to hear this: the established easygoing and pleasant nature, the change in pitch, the smile, the manipulative words... I imagine he draws many wild Pokemon into his reach using the same techniques. Extraordinary. All right, Drake, let's hear it. How did you find out?"

"Okay. Picture it--a fella out on the road for seven months comes back home to get the last badge from the Viridian Gym. He's tired, he's hungry, he's dirty, he wants nothin' more than to come back home and get food, shelter, the works, right? But he checks on his kid first, and she's doin' well and all that, so the next day he goes out to get the next badge, confident that he'll have a nice home, a good meal, and that his kid'll be safe. _Well_, imagine his surprise when he comes back from the Gym to the shack to see his kid's stuff bein' taken away. At first he's all, 'Oh, shit, the house is gettin' repoed or somethin'.' And then he's all messed up, you know, 'cause his way of life's bein' ruined and his kid'll be out on the street. _But_ he asks one of the guys takin' the stuff, 'What the hell are ya doin'?' And the movin' guy's like, 'Hey, the girl who lived here's movin' out to Pallet Town, and some dude's got her movin' all her clothes and shit into his lab.' And I'm goin', 'What the hell? She's bad off, sure, but she don't need ta do anything like _that_ to take care of herself.' You got a daughter, Doc?" At the Professor's nod, he continued, "Now, speakin' parent to parent, what would you think if your kid suddenly moved out to shack up with some famous old guy?"

_Wow._ Spencer scratched his head as he tried to make sense of the tale and its implications.

Doctor Oak's smirk became more withering. "I think I understand, Drake. In keeping with your quest to put Delia's life and concerns above your own, you came to save her from a fate worse than death."

Mr. Ketchum nodded eagerly. "Yeah, _yeah_, now you're gettin' it, Doc."

"Indeed. Then we shall return her to you. _Mrs. Pearce_!"

The housekeeper bustled back into the room, keeping a safe distance from the trainer. "Yes, Professor?"

The younger man sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Perhaps Mr. Ketchum wasn't so terribly bad. If his words were believable, he _did_ seem concerned about Delia. Still, how could the Professor give up so easily? Had the intimidating researcher finally met his match?

No, he was still smirking. Whatever he was up to now, this little scene wasn't over.

Spencer settled into the chair again and waited to see the next move.

* * *

Samuel had no intention of losing _his_ project to this asinine goof, no matter how interesting he seemed. It was just the matter of finding a suitably clever way to win. Reverse psychology had worked well enough on the child yesterday; it would probably work just as well on the father.

"Mrs. Pearce, Delia's father has come to take her away. Please go down to the lab, collect her, and give her to him."

Ha! It _was_ that simple. Instantly the fool waved his arm about and made a fuss. "Wait a minute, Doc, just wait a minute! Why don'tcha just hear me out? Look, we're both men of the world, right?"

At this pronouncement, Mrs. Pearce appeared ready to faint. The last thing this situation needed was an attack of the vapors. "Men of the world, are we? If this conversation is restricted to 'men of the world,' you had better go, Mrs. Pearce."

"I quite agree, Professor!" The silly woman left before their conversation could taint her.

"All right, then," Samuel said when he was sure she was safely removed from the area, "go on. We men of the world are eager to hear the message."

"Thanks a lot, amigo." Drake ambled over to a chair and carefully dusted it with his cap before seating himself. "Okay, look, Doc. I'm startin' to like ya, so I'm gonna give ya a little heads-up, ya know? Now I really don't give a damn what you do with Delia. She's an adult now, and she can make her own decisions, and if she wants to live out here with you guys and do whatever you're hell-bent on her doin', that's her choice. But the rest of the world's not as free-thinkin' as I am. They see a girl out here with two guys, and they start to think that somethin' sketchy's goin' on. I don't want any scandal hangin' over my kid's head, and I'm sure you wouldn't like to have any hangin' over your head either. So I'm gonna speak plainly with ya, Doc--fifty pounds buys my silence and my rights to my kid."

Samuel began circling the chair, filled with grudging respect for the bastard. _What?_ This manipulative heathen _was_ going to blackmail him! And he had the gall to _make sense_ and _speak plainly_ while doing it! Damnably hard to hate a man for being honest...

"I think you ought to know, sir," Spencer had answered, "that the Professor's intentions are entirely honorable!"

"Sure they are, buddy, I know that! If I thought they weren't, I'd jack up my price to two hundred!"

Unbelievable! This was too much, even for him. He wandered over to Spencer's upholstered chair, perched on the chair's arm. "Do you mean to tell me that, in essence, you would sell your daughter for two hundred pounds?"

Drake leaned back in the chair until it balanced precariously on two legs. "If I can see that the person buying's an all right fella, sure."

"_Sir_!" Samuel nearly staggered back under the force of Spencer's shout--the boy had potential, after all! "You are deeply offending my sensibilities! Have you no respect for your daughter? Have you no morals at all?"

"Yeah, I got morals! But I'm not doin' anythin' immoral! Look, fellas, I'm not doing anything that trainers haven't done! If you think about it, this whole situation's kinda like trading Pokemon..."

Spencer opened his mouth, but Samuel clapped a hand over it. "No, no, I want to hear this. Go on, Drake."

"Okay. Let's say another trainer comes up to ya and says, 'Hey, I wanna trade my... my Fearow for your Charmander, 'cause I train Fire-types.' You go through a certain thought process when that happens, right? On the one hand, you're all, 'Are you kiddin'? This Charmander's my friend, I can't just get rid of 'em!' But on the other hand, you're like, 'I wanna do what's best for Charmander. Maybe this guy can take better care of 'em than I can, and he seems like an all right guy who won't mistreat Charmander.' So you trade 'em, because you think Charmander'll get a better deal. In return, you get somethin' too. Makin' sense so far?"

Strange. He had never heard this thought process verbalized so effectively by a relatively new trainer before. "Yes, perfect sense. Continue."

"All _right_! So Delia told me she was comin' out here to ask ya about trainin' lessons. After I heard about her movin' here, I decided to investigate. Now it's not like I want my kid to go live with some wicked quayre guys, right? But then I got here and decided to check out the scene. Bottom line is, you got a good thing goin' here, Doc. You got all the Pokemon you can catch, and it's laid out real nice, and your house looks good. Better to have Delia learning about the monsters in a place like this than out on the road. I'm a big guy and I can handle it out there, but I don't think my kid can or should. She deserves this chance, and so I'm gonna see that she gets it with no problem."

_Fascinating._ This man had the right idea, as odd as his reasoning sounded. What _must_ he do with his Pokemon?

"'Course, Doc, I said this was like a trade, right? That means _I_ should get somethin' out of the deal. I don't think fifty pounds is a lot to ask for a kid like Delia. I'm givin' you a great kid here. She's a good girl, wicked smart, wicked cute, and a hell of a lot of fun. You're gettin' a bargain. But I'll leave it up to you fellas to decide." He folded his arms, stretched his legs, and... _smirked_.

_By God!_ This was Samuel's kind of chap! He poked Spencer's arm excitedly. "You know, Spencer, this man has a remarkable view... handling affairs between humans as if they were Pokemon battles... why, if we were to take this man in for three months, we _could_ turn him into a Gym Leader quite easily!"

Now what was the boy giving him a withering look for? It wasn't such a preposterous idea...

Then again, the dirty rascal had found his box of chocolates! Oh, no, the man would certainly get on his nerves as the other bastard trainers did. He had to go.

Samuel rose from the arm of the chair and headed toward his desk. "You're right. We'd better give him his fifty pounds. Just a moment, Drake, let me write you a check."

"I'm afraid it's money badly spent, Professor," Spencer called after him.

"Nuh-_uh_, buddy! It's money well spent! It's goin' towards my own trainin' career! I'm gettin' ready to go out to the Orange Islands there, and I figure this'll be good travel money 'til I win up some more. I don't need so much--enough for some chow for me and the monsters, and a little bit left over for a drinkin' spree if the mood hits me."

He snorted before opening his checkbook. "Oh, goodness, this _is_ money well spent. I should hate to know that you'll not have enough for your spirits. Here, let me give you a hundred pounds--"

"No, no, no way, Doc. I can't ask ya for a hundred pounds. That ain't right. I said the goin' price for a daughter was fifty pounds, and I'm a man of my word."

"Don't you think she's worth _more_ than that, sir?" He glanced up long enough to see Spencer clenching his fists. Why, the boy wanted to brain him! _Smashing_!

"Sure she is! But fifty's all I need right _now_. 'Sides, why should he pay so much for somethin' most men can get for free?"

Samuel shrugged and grabbed a pen from his desk. One couldn't blame the man for his honesty... but one could get rather sick of it.

"Don't you dare make one blot on that check, Professor! I'll not allow it! Sir, I simply cannot allow you to make a mockery of our morality! We refuse to let you offend our sensibilities in such a way! We are fine, upstanding men, and we should never do anything as lurid as you are imagining or as you are _doing_!"

"You haven't heard a word I said, have ya, kid? I _know_ you guys aren't gonna do anythin' too immoral. Plus, I told ya... either one of you fellas knocks my kid up, I'm gettin' a thousand pounds."

Samuel blinked. Knock the girl up? What the devil did he mean by that? Did he expect the girl to wake up in the morning on her own? Why shouldn't he knock her up? ...unless he meant making something out of odds and ends... but why should _he_ have to pay this ignoramus for putting the girl together?

He glanced at Spencer, who now had his face in his hands. Now what?

Spencer glanced up... by God, his face was a most unbecoming shade of green... took one look at his confusion, and sighed. He carefully waved a hand over the general direction of his abdomen. Now what the _hell_...

Oh. _Oh_.

This man actually believed he was going to...

"Oh, Lord. Spencer," he said, putting pen to paper, "if we don't hurry up and give this man his money, we shall have no sensibilities left to offend. Fifty pounds, I think you said?"

* * *

_Okay. Someone refresh my memory. What the hell does writing all this stuff down have to do with Pokemon training?_

Delia thought she'd been quite clear about what she wanted from this arrangement. She would read everything, then see how it worked in the critters, then hear the best ways to apply it to her flower business. She was certainly cool with his taking six months to do it, as he'd said yesterday: who was she to say how long it would take to read and see all the stuff? She hadn't expected to get (or even like) Rhoda, but that part was cool too: Rhoda could help her grow the flowers later on.

But today's "training lesson" had been just plain stupid, and it had gone against everything that was decent and respectable.

After he'd yelled at something else this morning, he had come into her room and started screaming "Get up, _get up_, you intolerable hoyden" at her. She'd taken a couple of seconds to get dressed (and she thought he would stay and watch her get dressed!) before he'd hustled her down to the lab. Then, just when she'd gotten accustomed to his shouting, he'd flung a thick book at her. "Volume 1 of Orchid's _Encyclopedia of Pokemon Biology_. The complete listing of the monsters, their evolutions, their types, and their attacks is located at the very front of the book. Copy that three times in your most excellent handwriting, and say each thing aloud as you write it. Well, go on, get to work!"

That was at six in the morning. That meant that she had been sitting down in the lab, smack in the middle of all the test tubes and beeping machines, for four hours. She had been writing the names of these damn critters for four hours. She had _not_ gotten enough sleep. She had _not_ been fed. She had _not_ been spoken to with any sort of respect at all. She had _not_ been praised for what she had copied. _And_, she had _not_ been told that her handwriting was pretty.

And finally, when her hand began to stiffen from the constant writing, and her throat began to grow raw from the constant talking, Delia decided that she would be damned if she was going to put up with another minute of this.

She threw the pen across the room, slammed the heavy book shut, used the remaining strength in her hand to pick up the book, and marched up the stairs.

"Thanks a lot, Doc, 'preciate it," a voice growled from the library.

Then that old fool's voice, crisp and biting. "Are you sure you won't have a hundred pounds?"

So that's where he was, huh? Just wait 'til she got her hands on him! Delia marched toward the library doors.

With all the strength she had in the other hand, she flung the doors open. Hurling the book down onto the floor, she screamed, "I won't, I won't, _I won't_!"

A millisecond later, someone bumped into her shoulder. "Oh, 'scuse me, lady, didn't mean ta--"

She was so wrapped up in her fury that she didn't even notice the man. "I won't write down another stupid word, you frickin'--"

"Holy frickin' cow! It's Delia, all right! Hey, kid, how's it goin'? Boy, she's a good-lookin' kid, huh, Doc?"

Oh, no. Oh, _no_. Not him, too! She glanced up and saw the eternally dirty and scruffy face of her father beside her. This was just the icing on the cake! "Pop! What the hell are you doin' here, ya chowdahead?!"

"Passin' through on my way to the Orange Islands." And then he had the gall to give her a stern glare. "Look, kid, you gotta act like you got some manners around here. Don't you give these fellas any of your lip, ya hear?"

"You've got some kinda nerve, tryin' to tell me about manners--"

He'd ignored her, he'd ignored her! "Hey, Doc, if she gives ya any trouble, just give her a good smack with a belt or somethin'. That'll keep her in line."

Just to make the whole thing worse, the Professor had started _laughing_! Oh, she'd love to knock both of them into the stratosphere!

Pop lifted his hat respectfully. "All right, I'm outta here. Pip pip cheerio and all that shit, fellas." He plunked the hat down on her head before delivering a swift smack to her bottom. "Good luck, kid, you'll need it!" Then he wandered down the hallway, pausing only to drop an envelope on a nearby table.

_Oh_! Ignoring the stinging of her backside, she ripped the hat off her head and blew a huge raspberry at his back. Any comfort that gesture gave was immediately eliminated by the Professor's amused voice just behind her. "By God! Now there's a trainer for you! An absolute genius! _Mrs. Pearce_!"

The housekeeper appeared moments later. She picked up the envelope, perused it, and dropped it into Delia's hands before answering. "Yes, sir?"

"Write to President Wallingford of the Orange League. Tell him that if he wants a suitable person to replace the Orange League Master, he can do no better than Mr. Drake Ketchum. A common man, but undoubtedly one of the most original and extraordinary trainers in the whole of Kanto!"

"Straightaway, sir."

"What'd he want?" Delia snapped as she opened the envelope. "He came to get some money from you, didn't he? _You're_ the fool for giving it to him... oh, _Gawd_!" Because there were nearly five hundred pounds' worth of bills inside the envelope! Where the hell had Pop gotten so much cash?

The Professor practically shoved her against the doorframe as he exited the library. "Get back to your training, insolent wench."

"I'm not training anything! I'm sitting there copying stuff! You call that training? I could sit at home and do that!"

"Oh, so you know everything about Pokemon, then?" He glared at her from the staircase. "Wonderful. Then tell me Charmander's evolutions."

"Okay." She could do this. "Charmander, ah... Charmie... then--"

"No. At what level does a Jigglypuff learn Body Slam?"

"Uh... level twenty-four?"

"No! What is Diglett's type?"

"Rock?"

"_No_!"

"Oh, who cares?" she cried, stamping her foot. "This is no way to learn about Pokemon! I'm supposed to get one and tell _it_ what to do! What's the point of knowing what they all do?"

A gentle hand on her shoulder, from her protector. "I know it's difficult to learn all those things, Delia. But please, try to understand--"

"There's no use explaining it to the silly girl, Spencer." The bastard was folding his arms across his chest. "No, drilling's what she needs. Stay out of it, or she'll be turning to you for sympathy. Besides," he added, pointing towards the library, "shouldn't you be in there worrying about your own reading?"

The poor guy sighed and gave her shoulder one last comforting squeeze. "All right, Professor, if you insist. But I must ask that you have a little patience with her."

To her surprise, the Professor's face softened. "Of course, Spencer, of course."

_Hey! All right!_ Spencer must have done something to make him treat her more nicely! Delia knew he'd never allow it to continue. She flashed him her most brilliant and thankful smile before he returned to the library, closing the door behind him.

"Now then."

A quick peek at the Professor's face made her realize that the older man had no intention of treating her with patience and kindness at all.

"Charmander's next evolution is Charmeleon, _not_ Charmie. _Say it_," he commanded as he ambled up the staircase.

Ooooh! Pushing her around when people weren't around to protect her--how low was that? She'd show him, though. Just because he ordered her to say and do something didn't mean she _had_ to do it. So Delia gave him a sweet smile and said, "Charmie."

"Charmeleon!" he snapped over his shoulder.

"Charmie!" she snapped back, with another stomp of her foot.

"_Charmeleon_!" he roared, storming up the stairs.

She raced to the bottom of the staircase. "_Charmie_!" she screamed at his back, inwardly delighting at his irritation.

At the top of the staircase, he turned to glower at her. "Delia." His voice was deadly calm. "Never mind knowing about these things before you lay a finger upon whatever poor creature has the misfortune to meet you. Before this _day_ is out, you will know the basics about numbers one through fifteen, or there'll be no lunch, no dinner--"

"You haven't even given me breakfast yet!" 

"--and _no chocolates_." With that announcement, he whirled off to his room, slamming his door behind him.

_Oh!_ Wouldn't she like to beat him into the wall! Not only did he have the nerve to order her around and scream at her, he was going to take away her chocolates--the _only_ thing that made this hellhole a tolerable place! But there had to be some kind of divine justice in the world. Someday he'd wish he hadn't treated her like dirt!

"Just you wait, Samuel Oak," she muttered. "One of these days you're gonna need me to help you, but I _won't_. You're gonna regret bullying me, pal!"

_Yeah, right. Why on earth is he ever going to need your help?_

Hey! He'd need her help in a lot of situations! For instance, what if...

_She, Spencer, and the Professor sat down to a lovely five-course meal. The conversation was lively and intelligent, the food excellent, and the whole experience superb... until the Professor leaped from his chair, gasping and clutching his throat._

"He's choking!" Spencer cried, while the Professor turned a marvelous shade of blue.

Delia merely smiled and brought a spoonful of soup to her lips. She savored the thickness and flavor of the soup as the Professor collapsed next to her chair, twitching and writhing.

Yeah. _Yeah_. Or what if...

_It was a warm summer day out on the beach. She and Spencer lay in the sand, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the cool breezes of the tropical air, and the cries of the seagulls... until an English voice shattered the peace and quiet._

"Help! I've got a cramp! I can't make it to shore! Someone save me!"

"Why, the Professor's drowning!" Spencer said, pointing out to the ocean.

Delia merely smiled at Spencer. "Spencer, could you please rub some suntan lotion on my back?"

And because Spencer had quickly agreed, she could roll over and enjoy it all: the strong hands on her back, the warmth of the sun, cool tropical breezes, the aristocratic cries filling the air, the vision of the hand desperately reaching out of the water, and the approaching sea monster that was going to get its midday snack.

Delia rubbed her hands and chuckled evilly at the image. _Yeah, but that death's too easy for him._ What if...

_The crowds were hungry for the blood of the tyrant and traitor. After many years, Princess Delia had finally overthrown the evil Prince Samuel and gained control of Pallantia. Now thousands had turned out for the public execution, and from her throne before the guillotine in the square, Princess Delia watched the proceedings._

Prince Samuel had looked handsome even while he begged so prettily for his life. "Oh, please spare me, dear, sweet, wonderful, brilliant, beautiful Princess Delia, who is not a guttersnipe..."

But Princess Delia had stood, yawned, and waved her hand dismissively.

The crowd roared at the thwack of the blade; many of her adoring followers had brought the head to the Princess; and the cheers were deafening as the Princess raised the gray head high and presented it to the people...

Yeah. _Yeah_. That was perfect. If she closed her eyes and outstretched her arm, she could feel the weight of the bastard's head, could feel the soft hair between her fingers, could hear the crowd's celebration.

She opened her eyes and looked at her outstretched arm. No head there. Too bad--

--and then Delia had the distinct feeling that she was being watched.

She glanced over her shoulder at the staircase.

The Professor stood there, very much alive, very irritated and confused.

She blinked and lowered her arm.

_It was just a dream..._

The Professor snapped, "Name the first monster in the Orchid listings." 

"Ah... Charmander?"

"No! What attack does a Gloom learn at level thirty-eight?"

"Er... Stunbeam?

"_No! Get back to work!_"

Princess Delia fled back to the lab with her book, her money, and her hat before the tyrant decided to guillotine her.


End file.
